


The Case of the Dolos Criminal

by WayWardWonderer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Brothers, Case, Death, Family, Foe, Friendship, Gen, Hurt, Killed, Murder, Mystery, Pursuit, Revenge, Sacrifice, Wounded, criminal, dying, enemy, injured, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-13 20:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15372402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WayWardWonderer/pseuds/WayWardWonderer
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson set out on a perilous case to identify a man who has proven himself to be as dangerous, if not more so, than his previous mentor Professor Moriarty. During the confrontation the man inflicts more damage to the life and career than any of the detective's past cases combined with a single murder.





	1. Beginning Anew

Restless as ever Sherlock Holmes impatiently sat in his chair in the heart of his iconic study within the flat as 221b Baker Street with his pipe clenched between his teeth and wrapped up in his red robe as his friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson, slowly unwrapped the heavy gauze around Sherlock's recently mended dislocated shoulder. It had been four weeks since Sherlock had been abducted and tortured by Moriarty; and two additional weeks since Watson had been attacked by Moriarty's second in command.

But it was five weeks prior when the sick criminal had lured Sherlock into a trap and attempted to kill the detective by locking him away inside a burning manor. Watson had fortunately arrived in time to locate Sherlock and get his friend to safety. The deviant responsible for both Sherlock's abduction and Watson's assault had yet to be identified by either Scotland Yard, or Sherlock himself.

"Well, Watson?" Sherlock asked as the good doctor finally finished unwrapping his healed shoulder. There was only the faintest of a yellow hued bruise along Sherlock's collarbone. The swelling of the skin and muscle beneath had been reduced entirely and Sherlock had nearly regained all of his strength to that shoulder and arm. "Am I cleared for duty?"

"It appears so, yes." Watson gently lifted Sherlock's arm straight forward until the limb was evenly aligned with this shoulder. "Hold your arm out as level as you can." Watson instructed and he retracted his own hand and watch Sherlock's arm trembling slightly as the weakened ligaments in the shoulder fought to support the weight of Sherlock's arm. Waiting for sixty seconds to pass Watson nodded for Sherlock to relax his arm. "There's still residual weakness but as long as you don't do anything too strenuous I believe I can medically clear you."

"Splendid!" Sherlock pulled his pipe from his teeth as he excitedly rose from his chair. Moving past Watson Sherlock rushed into his private room and threw off his robe as he searched for clean clothes to wear. Calling out through his still opened door to Watson the enthusiastic detective announced his plans with renewed vigor. "And none too soon! I finally have a lead on the identity of the man who had nearly taken our lives."

"Oh?" Watson was genuinely surprised by the revelation. "And how did you manage that while you were laid-up here in Baker Street?"

"You forget Watson," Sherlock emerged from his room dressed in his three-piece gray suit; gray slacks, a white shirt, dark gray vest and gray jacket over top. "I have my irregulars to set about my business on my behalf when necessary."

"And your eccentric group of spies managed to discover what you could not?"

"In a crude sense, yes." Sherlock confirmed as he reclaimed his pipe and puffed thoughtfully as he looked to his friend with a vibrant curiosity beaming behind his eyes. "My sources have trailed our unnamed assailant to a decrepit hotel in the heart of the city. Rundown, located in a dangerous neighborhood filled to the brim with criminals and famous for its underground poker tournaments; yet this building still manages to elude the law and inspectors."

"The person or persons who own this hotel are bribing Scotland Yard?"

"Undoubtedly." Sherlock stated with the utmost confidence as he set aside his pipe and set to properly tying a dark green tie around his upturned collar. "Which of course means that this person or persons has very deep pockets. Pockets deep enough to hold the very same connections and resources that allowed the unscrupulous Moriarty to evade the law for so many years."

"Are we to confront this person?" Watson carefully rolled up the sleeves of jacket and shirt beneath along his right forearm to reveal the newly formed scarred courtesy of their unnamed foe's previous attack. "Are we to confront him on his own turf?"

"Indirectly, yes."

"You mean we'll be disguised?"

"Yes to the disguise," Sherlock tightened his tie and turned down his collar over it. "but no to the 'we'. It's much easier to maintain a disguise and false persona while working solo."

"But Holmes," Watson wisely protested the decision as he mentally assessed the duration of Sherlock's recent recovery period from both his physical trauma as well as his mental resolve. "you've only just healed from your injuries." Rolling his sleeves back to their proper positions he slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and took a stern pose. "Do you think it's a good decision to potentially put yourself in a dangerous situation without any one to watch your back?"

"I admit that I am taking a big risk, but I am certain that it will pay off."

"Very well. While I don't agree with your decision, I will respect it."

"Thank you, Watson. For tonight night I shall join the poker tournament and at long last be introduced to the owner of such a seedy establishment; and at long last place a name to the face of our most dangerous current foe."

"Until then we must inform Inspector Lestrade of our intentions." Watson urged cautiously as he watched his friend compose himself like a proper gentleman. "Scotland Yard can't be kept in the dark on this case."

"Quite right. We'll send a telegraph."

"Telegraph? Why can't we tell him this in person? It'd be much easier to communicate face to face rather than on a piece of paper."

"True. But according to my resources there has been a spy planted along our block to watch the flat. If we are to leave the sanctuary of our flat and show no sign of ill health then my ability to slip undercover will be surely tarnished, and additional security will be placed at the hotel."

"Then where are we going?"

"We are going to sit here and wait. I merely changed into my day clothes as I grew bored of appearing lazy or ill while my shoulder and stitches healed."

"I see."

"Try not to worry Watson. I'll ask for Mrs. Hudson to make a trip to the market and appear to be gathering supplies for our aid to fool the spy who will no doubt tail her. While out she will pass along my message to my contact stationed at said market and tonight I shall slip unnoticed into the shady underground and poker tournament. Our foe will be none the wiser of our recovery."

_**...to be continued...** _


	2. Weighing the Stakes

Masking himself expertly behind make-up, prosthetics and heavy clothing Sherlock Holmes slipped out of the flat under the cover of darkness disguised as a ragged sailor in search of entertainment. Using a light powder to turn his dark hair gray, dark bronzer to prematurely age his skin along his face, neck and a hands, the detective's natural pallor had completely disappeared. A dark stubble had been added along his jawline and upper lip to add to his unkempt appearance.

Creating a small white lens to conceal the iris in his left eye and a prosthetic scar over the same eye Sherlock appeared to bear a nasty scar courtesy of a sharp blade. Applying a false nose and chin Sherlock altered his facial structure to create a completely different facade beyond his natural features.

Using a tattered thin gray shirt, a weather worn navy suit and salt stained black shoes the clever detective appeared as any other sailor who had made port in the city and only drew the briefest of glances from passersby.

Watson discreetly watched from the windows on the second floor as his colleague walked down the block, using the backdoor of the flat to sneak out of the building before crossing between neighboring houses and stepping back onto the sidewalk to give the illusion that he had been walking about all afternoon without anyone see him leaving 221b Baker Street.

Keeping his eyes forward Sherlock strolled down the sidewalk without gaining a tail from the spy planted outside the flat by Moriarty's lieutenant. His disguise worked perfectly.

Sitting back from the window and turning his attention to the newspaper sitting on the table between the two chairs Watson attempted to distract himself while Sherlock set about on his dangerous self-imposed missions. "Good luck Holmes, I pray that I won't need to come to your aid tonight."

* * *

Fearlessly Sherlock made his way into the most dangerous, seedy part of the city in search of his unnamed foe. The rundown and rambunctious hotel known as 'The Castoff' was brightly lit and numerous loud conversations resonated with a thunderous commotion through the dirty, cracked windows and out through the front door that frequently opened and shut as guests entered and exited hastily.

Without breaking stride Sherlock entered the hotel and looked about the eccentric group of thieves, sailors, crooked cops and shady doctors all sitting around small circular tables in the large lobby. With his head held high Sherlock pushed through the crowd and walked to the well-stocked bar at the far end of the lobby; opposite side from the receptionist desk.

The bartender, a woman who was as jaded to the ruckus as she was unfazed by Sherlock's ghastly facade, leaned heavily on the surface of the bar on one elbow as she stared at the newcomer to the hotel.

"Hey you." She addressed Sherlock with an abrasively inquisitive tone. Her fiery red hair was pulled up into a messy bun, her dark brown eyes glued upon Sherlock's face. "You're new here."

"What's it to you, love?" Sherlock responded in a gruff tone to mask his own natural voice.

"Nothing to me, but it might mean everything to my boss if ain't have an invitation to be here."

Reaching into his pocket Sherlock slammed a note with a large sum of currency down on the bar. "Here's my invitation. Whiskey."

Flashing Sherlock an approving grin the bartender swept her hands over the money and placed it under the counter. Retrieving the requested bottle of whiskey and a shot glass she proceeded to pour the ordered drink while keeping her eye on Sherlock's every move.

"Leave the bottle." Sherlock commanded as he took the shot and downed it quickly.

"Why not? I know you're good for it." The bartender quipped as she set about to walk away. A flash of intrigue illuminated her eyes and she stood before Sherlock as he hovered over the whiskey on the bar. "Got any more on ya'?"

"Nosy little mouse, aren't you?"

"I don't mean no harm!" The bartender defended herself in a huff as she crossed her arms over her chest. "I just thought you might interested in a little card game, that's all."

"Cards?" Sherlock feigned ignorance and poured himself another shot. He questioned the bartender. "Who holds the deck?"

"My boss. He loves to play poker and has a game set up for tonight."

"What are the stakes?"

"Fifty pound buy-in."

"And the winning pot?"

"As much as anyone around the table puts in. Winner takes all."

"Who's playing?"

"Well, I know for sure that bloke over there has a hand in it." The bartender leaned over the counter and pointed to a doctor sitting at a table at the far wall with two prostitutes on his knees. "Dr. Wellington. He has a nasty habit of picking up company at night and needs to pay his tab before he's allowed in the brothel upstairs."

"Brothel." Sherlock commented with a faux interest. "I like this place. Who else?"

"Over there," the bartender motioned with her eyes to another man sitting not too far away from where Sherlock was standing. The man in question was somewhat familiar to Sherlock as he was a part of Scotland Yard. "that's Roger Olsen. He's been my bosses 'go-to' whenever one of his boys gets pinched by the law." She pointed to a third man as he walked through the door. "And that's the final player. A gun for hire. He's killed at least sixteen men, all of them crossed the boss and paid with their lives." Leaning back she eyed Sherlock with an intense gaze. "Interested?"

"Very." Sherlock stated as he played the bartender perfectly into his own scheme. "What time?"

"Ten o'clock. Order a Scotch, neat and leave behind a sixpence. You'll be shown in."

_**...to be continued...** _


	3. A Friendly Warning

As the clock struck ten in the evening Sherlock found himself surrounded by the other aforementioned players at the bar. One by one each man ordered their drink and placed down a buy-in fee as the bartender nodded to a large man who was surely hired on as security by the unnamed foe. The other occupants in the lobby were either urged to head upstairs to the brothel or leave the hotel for the night in a threatening manner.

"This way." The muscular man commanded as he lead the group to a concealed door to the left of the bar.

Pushing the door open he braced it with his arm and watched as the men all passed through and into a hidden staircase leading into the basement. Following the group down into the depths of the hotel the man stood at the bottom of the staircase to watch over the tournament from afar.

Sherlock eyed his competition warily, judging their behaviors solely on their body language as he began to assess his odds in the upcoming tournament. Each man was as arrogant as they were narcissistic. Easy prey.

"Hold it." A second man, just as muscular and intimidating as the first, motioned for the men to each line up and raise their arms.

Obeying the instructions Sherlock raised his arms and kept his attention on his competition as the guard checked for any hidden weapons in his clothing.

"Go ahead."

Moving forward Sherlock found himself in the center of a dim, cold concrete room. In the center was a massive oak table with a flawless green felt finish over top and surrounded by six oak chairs. A large wooden rectangular case was locked shut and placed in the center of the table. Above the table a single white lightbulb hung down and illuminated the case and the chairs in such a manner that eerie shadows were cast along the walls and the floor in an ominous fashion.

Waiting for his competition to take their selected seats around the table Sherlock sat down between the doctor and the officer, his eyes never darting one way or another to avoid giving way his naturally suspicious demeanor. The group was silent as they awaited their host and fortunately the wait would prove itself short as a door hidden in the shadows from the corner creaked open.

"Gentlemen." A voice that set Sherlock's nerves on fire addressed the gathered men around one side of the table. "Shell we begin?"

Sherlock eyed the man as he stepped from the shadows into the light provided by the bulb above. Standing opposite the gathered players the host opened the wooden case and revealed the pristine poker chips and brand new playing cards within.

Keeping his silence Sherlock confidently identified the host as the man he had been pursuing. He was in fact Moriarty's lieutenant.

* * *

Watson eagerly paced about the flat as he awaited the return of Sherlock to the safety of Baker Street. Uneasy with his friend's decision to work undercover and to go alone the good doctor was as restless as he was anxious. Unable to sit still Watson periodically looked out the windows down to the dark street for any indication of his returning friend, but there was no sign of the bold detective.

"Holmes ol' boy, I hope to see you back sooner rather than later. It's getting late."

* * *

Sherlock's keen eyes played favorably in his hand as he easily deduced which of his opponents were bluffing, holding high hands and who to pick off until he was the last player in action along with their host. The pot had grown from a modest surplus of smaller notes to a humble fortune of larger notes. While Dr. Wellington had folded first and left the hotel, the hitman; who was identified simply as Richard, played until he was out of funds. It took Sherlock some time and patience but he finally played out Roger, the corrupt officer.

"Very impressive." Moriarty's lieutenant complimented as he and Sherlock were the last to hold a high hand. Puffing a cloud of cigar smoke in Sherlock's face he arrogantly studied the disguised detective as if trying to place the face of a long lost friend. "You must play often."

"It passes the time." Sherlock replied in a low gruff voice as he eyed his opponent intensely.

"I suppose it does. Forgive me, we've been playing cards all night and I never got your name."

"What's it to you?"

"Well, I'd appreciate a name to go with the man who has proven himself a rather admirable adversary."

"Likewise." Sherlock held silent for a moment before finally giving a fake name to his host. "Roy. Just call me Roy."

"A pleasure. My name is Eric Rathe."

"Fine, fine." Sherlock attempted to unsettle his enemy further while maintaining his own false identity to prevent his true identity from being discovered. "Are we going to finish this hand? I ain't got all night."

"Quite right." Taking the cigar from his mouth Eric dropped another chip on the pile with a smug flick of the wrist. "Call."

Sherlock accepted and dropped his final chip. "Call."

Eric lowered his cards and smoothed them across the table for Sherlock to see in full. "Full house: three tens and two nines." As his hand reached out to sweep up his winnings he was stopped short by Sherlock's gruff voice.

"Hold it." Mirroring Eric's motions Sherlock lowered his own cards to reveal the true winning hand. "Straight flush: eight through four, all the same suit."

Eric's pride slunk with his shoulders as he realized he had been bested at his own game.

"I'll be taking my winnings now." Sherlock commented with indifference. Picking up a single chip he dropped it before Eric, "For your troubles.", and rose from the table with a righteous arrogance in his false voice.

Greatly displeased with his loss Eric motioned for the guards at the doors over to his side with a silent gesture. Whispering something inaudible but vile all the same Sherlock knew that he had placed a large and unnecessary target on his back, but showed no intimidation as he crossed the room and ascended the staircase back to the main lobby of the hotel.

The bartender had been tending to the filthy used glasses along her bar when Sherlock returned to the floor and gave her an acknowledging nod.

"So, how'd ya' fair tonight, love?"

"My cards were more than fair," Sherlock quipped as he used his thumb to point back over his shoulder. "as were my winnings."

"Oh... dear."

"I take it I wasn't supposed to win."

"I'm not sure, you see, no one's ever won before!"

"So I gathered." Sherlock somewhat lamented as he listened to the sound of footsteps hustling up the staircase behind him. "Then I'm certain my first win will also be my last."

"Watch yourself and get back to your ship as soon as possible!" She whispered with sincere concern while keeping an eye on the doorway behind where Sherlock was standing. "Hate to see you lose your other eye, or worse!"

"I ain't afraid."

"Then you're a bloody fool."

Keeping his confidence present with his posture and his attitude Sherlock fearlessly strode over to the main entrance of the hotel in an attempt to leave. His mission was a success; his enemy had been properly identified and personality analyzed. All that remained was the return to Baker Street where he and Watson could collaborate on their next move.

"Hold it." The firm voice of the security guard called after Sherlock as his strong hand painfully gripped Sherlock's recently healed shoulder. The pain was a sharp jolt that shot down Sherlock's arm and into his hand, but he contained the wince and showed no sign of pain out of spite.

"What now?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth in an irritated voice.

"You forgot this." The guard held up a playing card from the poker tournament and flashed Sherlock a wicked sneer: the Ace of Spades. Tucking the card into the front pocket of Sherlock's shirt over his heart, the guard released his grip on Sherlock's shoulder and patted it twice firmly. "Safe travels, mate."

_**...to be continued...** _


	4. The Real Game Begins

Watson pulled his pocketwatch from his trouser pocket for the fiftieth time that night and flipped open the brass cover to eye the time ticking away despite having just checked the time less than a minute prior. It was past two in the morning and the worried doctor still hadn't seen or heard anything regarding his friend who was still working undercover and alone in the depths of the seediest hotel in all of London.

"Something must've happened." Watson stated aloud as he began to mentally pick apart every possible dire outcome that his friend could've suffered. "Perhaps his injuries were more hindering than I initially believed."

Just as Watson pocketed his watch and marched over to the closed door of the study to grab onto his coat the door opened and Sherlock returned with a stern look plastered across his disguised face.

"Watson! Good to see you."

"Holmes! Thank goodness..." Watson stepped aside as Sherlock entered the study and marched over to the small vanity in the corner where the majority of his make-up and prosthetics were stored.

"Fear not my friend, no one noticed my absence from the flat, nor did anyone see through my disguise while I was out on the streets." Taking a seat before the mirror he leaned toward the pristine surface and pressed his fingers around his white-tinted eye tenderly. "I apologize for returning at such a late hour but the game itself didn't begin until ten in the evening, and then played out for nearly three hours until our marked man and myself were the last two players."

"I was just about to go out and look for you." Watson stated somberly, but a twinge of relief in his voice indicated that he was returning to good spirits.

"And it's a good thing you didn't." Sherlock remarked as he turned on a light above the mirror of the vanity and began carefully removing the false nose and false chin. "Had you left my cover could've been blown and your life endangered."

"My life? Endangered?" Watson asked as he shut the door to the study and strode over to stand behind Sherlock as he sat at the vanity. "What on Earth for?"

"This." Sherlock replied curtly as he pulled the Ace of Spades from his shirt pocket and held it up between his forefinger and middle finger for Watson to view.

Watson took it from Sherlock's hand and turned it about curiously to study the front and back as if he'd find something of interest, but did not. "A playing card?"

"A warning."

"Ah... the Ace of Spades. The death card."

"Indeed." Sherlock confirmed as he next carefully removed the fake scar and white lens from his eyes. The gray colored iris beneath shined brightly as the lens had left the white of his eye bloodshot and sore from prolonged use.

"Why give you this card? I thought no one could see through that particular disguise."

"And no one did." Sherlock remarked as he dipped a clean cloth in cold cream and used it to wipe the dark toned make-up from his face, neck, hands and arms. "This threat is the result of my winning tonight's poker tournament much to our host's chagrin."

"The host? Did you get his name?"

"Yes. Eric Rathe."

"Eric... Rathe. Doesn't sound familiar to me."

"Unsurprising. There is no record of such a man in Scotland Yard's files, nor on the street."

"How do you know?"

"Because as one who delves into the criminal underworld on a near nightly basis I took it upon myself to familiarize the names and aliases of all known criminals who disgrace the United Kingdom. Such a name has never appeared in the records which either means the alias is a new title or the man carrying said alias is truly a brilliant criminal that surpassed even Moriarty's ability to remain discreet."

"If this Rathe fellow truly is as clever and resourceful as you claim then it's entirely possible that he'll prove himself far more dangerous than Moriarty ever had been in the past."

"Agreed."

"How are we to deal with such a deviant? He has nearly killed us both," Watson's hand subconsciously clutched at the scar on his opposite forearm as he spoke. "eluded Scotland Yard and is now safely locked away in his own personal stronghold."

"I've irked Rathe by besting him at cards, his favorite game." Sherlock wiped off his face with a towel before running through his hair to remove the gray tint and restore the naturally dark locks beneath. "He'll set about seeking my facade of 'Roy' and will pay handsomely to locate him. My group of irregulars and my contacts on the street will inform me once a bounty is set."

"You're not going to turn yourself in to get close to him!?" Watson looked absolutely horrified at the thought of possibly losing Sherlock to such a violent man who had demonstrated in the past that he was willing to kill to get what he wants. "That'd be suicide!"

"Of course not." Sherlock eased Watson's mind with a sincere response as he rose from his seat and walked into his personal room to change out of his filthy clothes and into something that was more comfortable and dignified. "Once Rathe sets up the bounty to be collected he will also set a designated point of interest in which to communicate and to collect said bounty. I'll use this knowledge to snare Rathe in his own trap."

"I just hope that your plan plays out as smoothly as you imply."

"As do I." Sherlock, now dressed more appropriately, peered out his doorway to his friend and nodded once. "It's quite late and I'm fatigued from my mission. I shall see you in the morning. Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight, Holmes."

_**...to be continued...** _


	5. Brothers in Arms

The busy streets of London hustled about as per its usual routine during the two days that followed Sherlock's win at Rathe's poker table. Keeping a low profile to ensure that the spy planted to watch over Baker Street had as little information to deliver as possible Sherlock spent his free time gracing the second floor of the flat with his violin and bow in hand.

"Honestly Holmes, won't you please stop fiddling with that blasted fiddle!" Watson griped as he sat in his chair in the study with a newspaper in his hands. "It's driving me crazy."

The singing of the strings ceased as Sherlock lifted the bow and gave his friend a bemused grin. "Sorry about that ol' chap. I often forget that you and I hold different appreciations toward music."

"I appreciate the violin just fine. But listening to the same song being played over and over again can be torturous to the ears."

"Or soothing." Sherlock quipped as he willing returned the violin and the bow back their case on Sherlock's desk. "But one man's pain is another man's pleasure, after all."

Watson's eyes scanned over the newspaper looking for any articles of interest regarding Sherlock's ploy but it seemed nothing was amiss. Expected news stories were abound in the paper; sports updates, politics, local activities and obituaries. There was no story revolving around criminal or suspicious activity reported beyond the usual scope of expectations.

"It seems my undercover operation has yet to yield any useful data."

"No, there hasn't been-" Watson lowered the newspaper and eyed Sherlock as the detective took the chair opposite of himself. "How did you know there wasn't anything reported? You've yet to read this morning's paper."

"I didn't need to." Sherlock stated confidently as he picked up his pipe and began stuffing it with fresh tobacco. "If there had been article of interest you'd have told me, and judging by your impatient demeanor and haste with scanning over each headline rather than taking the time to read the entire story only emphasizes the lack of interesting details that had been reported."

"Oh. Yes, I see."

"Perhaps we-"

There was a sudden knocking at the closed door to the study that stopped Sherlock midsentence and drew his attention to the door over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a familiar guest walking in behind her. "Mr. Holmes, your brother has stopped by for a visit."

"So I see." Sherlock looked past Mrs. Hudson to the taller man standing behind her. More broadly built that Sherlock himself the eldest of the two Holmes brothers carried an air of professionalism and dignity best suiting a politician than a consort to Parliament. "Mycroft. This is unexpected." Lowering his eyes to Mrs. Hudson he addressed the landlady kindly. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

Mycroft stepped into the room and stepped aside to allow Mrs. Hudson to pass back through the door and close it behind her. "Sherlock. Dr. Watson." Mycroft greeted in a curt retort. "Well brother, it seems you've finally lost your good sense of judgment."

"Oh?" Watson didn't appreciate the tone in Mycroft's voice. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"It's simple, Watson." Sherlock replied on his brother's behalf. "Mycroft is here to inform me that my ploy to lure out Rathe and to place a bounty on my head has actually been successful. The only reason it appears to have failed in because Mycroft had painstakingly used his connections to eradicate such reported articles from the newspaper to protect us." Reaching for his tin of tobacco Sherlock held it out toward his brother. "Care for a pipe?"

"You know I don't smoke." Mycroft rejected the offer as he crossed the room and stood beside his younger brother still sitting int he chair. "And you know that I prefer to not interfere with criminal activity, yet you've forced my hand."

"Nonsense, I've forced nothing from you."

"As my brother your reckless intent indeed forces my hand as I had sworn to mother on her deathbed that I would look after you."

"Yes. I remember. I was there when you made that nearly impossible promise." Sherlock lit his pipe and placed it between his teeth as he stared at his brother with a devilish smirk. "Though I feel I must commend you on your efforts, very impressive."

"Please brother, take this as seriously as you would any other case." Mycroft nearly pleaded as he sighed with an irritated breath. "A very dangerous man wants you dead. And with pockets as deep as his I fear that he will succeed in paying off half of the criminal underworld just to see you in your grave."

"I'm aware of the gravity of the situation, Mycroft. The information that does elude my grasp is that which you had retracted from the newspapers this morning. What has happened that you felt it necessary to exclude it from the public?"

"You won't let this rest, will you?"

"No." Sherlock responded firmly as he set aside his pipe and motioned to the third unoccupied chair reserved for clients seeking aid. "Please, indulge us."

"Very well." Mycroft relented with an open disgust as he took the offered seat. Sitting down with one leg crossed over the other and his arms crossed defensively over his chest the elder Holmes reluctantly indulged the younger Holmes' curiosity. "Two mornings ago there was a series of ships along the pier vandalized and ransacked, but no obvious motive, beyond seeking something very particular could be traced by Scotland Yard. And last night there was a massive disturbance regarding numerous known criminals with histories of violence rampaging through known sailor dives and brothels. There was a single name mentioned at the scene of every disturbance; 'Roy'. And I know that name means something you."

"It does." Sherlock confirmed without batting an eye. "That was the name I had given to Eric Rathe during our poker game."

"I figured as much."

"And how's that?" Sherlock asked as if unconvinced by his brother's claim.

"When we were small children you would often go off by yourself and tell mother you were playing with a friend named 'Roy'. No such friend existed, you just wanted to try and make me jealous."

The grin on Sherlock's face widened briefly before disappearing as quickly as it appeared. "Unfortunately it took you nearly eight years to discover such a fact. Outside of these disturbances and the alias, how can you be so certain that I am at the center of the controversy?"

"I've had my various contacts watching over the flat ever since you had been abducted and injured. But unlike Rathe's spy, who has indeed been observing the building after you and Watson had escaped the fire set at the manor, my contact was watching the rear entrance and the windows rather than the very obvious front door. When a sailor reportedly left the flat despite never having been seen entering my contact informed several others who tracked this curious sailor's movements to the hotel and then back to the flat. Seeing as you, my dear brother," Mycroft was sounding less irritated and more concerned as he spoke. "have always had a talent for disguises I feel it's safe to suspect you were in the fact that sailor. Am I correct?"

"You are." Sherlock confirmed with a slight nod. "Well done Mycroft."

"Now, you must answer me this one very important question:" Mycroft unfolded his arms and leaned forward slightly in his chair as he tried to sound more reasonable than worried. "When Rathe comes for you, and he will come for you, Sherlock, how will guarantee you will not fall victim to his bounty and bounty hunters?"

"I cannot make such a guarantee. But I can assure you that I will take every precaution. I will not allow Rathe to become a new criminal mastermind over London now that Moriarty has been locked away and is destined for the gallows."

"Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head slightly at his brother's cavalier attitude. "while I don't doubt your abilities to defend yourself or anticipate an oncoming assault, I do fear that the sheer numbers will be against you. Dozens of dangerous criminals who despise you now have an incentive to act on their rage against you."

Watson cleared his throat awkwardly. "He has a point, Holmes. And you're still recovering from your injuries. You may not have the physical resolve to fight back if you're outnumbered in the street."

"Rathe has set a bounty for my alias," Sherlock confidently reminded his worried companions as he looked from Mycroft to Watson, then back to Mycroft. "and the only people who know of my alias are you two, and Mycroft's contacts on the streets. I do hope you know who you can trust, Mycroft."

"Never mind me." Mycroft bitterly retorted as he rose from his chair and made his way to the door. "Please, do not do anything foolish."

"Fear not. I will locate Rathe's contact point and spring a trap on him before he has the chance to do so on me."

"I do hope you're right." Opening the door Mycroft paused and glanced back over his shoulder to his brother with a somber stare. "After the loss of mother you're the only family I have left, Sherlock."

_**...to be continued...** _


	6. An Invitation

Sherlock sat in quiet contemplation for several hours after Mycroft's visit. Thoughtfully chewing on his pipe Sherlock stared out the window as the sun began to set and with it came a pale fog that blanketed the streets of the city. Watson sat idle in his chair across from Sherlock with a cup of war tea in one hand and his revolver clutched nervously in the other.

The spy who had been stationed outside the flat by Rathe's command stared up at the second floor windows of the flat from his post inside the front foyer of the vacant house across the street.

"No change, eh?" Watson asked as he finished his tea and sat his now empty cup and saucer down on the small table stationed between the two chairs.

"No." Sherlock confirmed without breaking his eyes from the window as he studied the spy with an unspoken curiosity. "Our spy has remained as annoyingly vigil as ever. I've yet to see any sign from- Hello? What's this?" Sherlock leaned forward slightly in his chair and watched as one of his loyal irregulars expertly weaved through the thinning crowds of people in the street below while avoiding any detection by the spy stationed outside the flat. "Good lad. It appears we do have some news, after all."

"Oh? Watson peered out the window as well and caught a glimpse of a young boy rounding the corner of the flat to use the far more discreet rear door as instructed by Sherlock himself. "Looks like young Henry."

"Indeed." Sherlock confirmed with an intrigued lilt to his reply. "It must be safe to presume that our awaited rendezvous point is to be down at the docks."

"The docks, eh?" Watson sat back in his chair and shook his head slightly at the unnerving thought. "I've always hated going to the docks at night. Eerie place."

"Come now Watson, there's nothing down at the docks at night that isn't already there during the day."

"True, except for the frightful chill coming from the water and uncouth sailors skulking about after months at sea, just looking for a fight. No thank you. I prefer examining the docks during-"

A swift knock at the door abruptly caught the two men's attention and interrupted Watson's sentence. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to the closed door while Watson stared at the door without turning his head whatsoever. Watson had instinctively and briefly raised but then lowered his pistol before he concealed it at his side so as to not alarm their guest.

"Come in, Henry." Sherlock invited the young man into the study already knowing who it was who had knocked at the door.

The door opened quickly and the young boy walked in with a great purpose in his stride. "Mr. Holmes," Henry was no more than eleven years in age but showed incredible maturity for someone so young. With dark blond hair that was strewn about beneath his dark gray cap, smudges of soot on his face that made his bright brown eyes even brighter and filthy clothes that were torn at the sleeve cuffs, Henry looked quite a sight to anyone who would look upon him. "I have news about a bounty set to be collected at the docks!"

"What did I tell you, Watson?" Sherlock stated smugly around the pipe in his teeth as glanced to Watson then back to Henry. "When, and where exactly will this take place?"

"Tomorrow night." Henry stated with absolute certainty. "Rumor is that a new criminal mastermind, someone who apparently learned from Professor Moriarty himself, had sent out three of his best assassins in search of the sailor who bested him during a poker tournament the other night. Rumor also states that one of the assassins has found the sailor and is going to collect the bounty at eight o'clock tomorrow night. The mastermind, some bloke named 'Rathe', is going to be there in person when it's collected."

"Excellent work, Henry." Sherlock stated with the utmost approval in his voice at the young man's thorough investigation.

"But what does this have to do with you, Mr. Holmes? Why did you need me to stake out the docks so long? How'd you know-"

"Henry, these matters are not of your concern. They are too dangerous." Opening the small table beside his chair Sherlock picked up a small, brown leather pouch containing a number of coins and notes. "Here's five pounds for your work."

"Wow! Thank you so much, Mr. Holmes!" Henry eagerly, but graciously, accepted the offered fee. "Truly, thank you!"

"It is I who should thank you, Henry. Good work tonight. Keep a low profile and stay away from the docks until further notice. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir. I'll stay away from the dock." Henry confirmed with an appreciative and acknowledging nod. "Thank you again, sir!"

Henry raced out of the study just as quickly as he entered with his fee clutched tightly in his hands. The door shut behind the enthusiastic youth leaving Sherlock and Watson alone once again in the study.

"There's something I don't understand Holmes," Watson spoke up with a righteous worry in his voice as he replaced his revolver upon his knee. "the bounty was set up for your alias and you haven't donned such a disguise since that dreadful night. How could Rathe's assassin have claimed to have located a man who doesn't actually exist? It's impossible!" An unsettling thought quickly entered Watson's mind. "Or a trap..."

"It's a simple explanation. The claim is but only a rumor, Watson. Rumors carry no true merit except in the criminal underground. The purpose of this particular rumor is to strike fear in the hearts of those who may be associated with this alias, of which there are none, and to encourage other criminals to hasten their search for the alias in an attempt to collect the bounty for themselves."

"But there's already been a meeting confirmed for tomorrow night. How do you account for that? It sounds as though someone poor fellow has already been singled out and taken captive."

"It's not so much a meeting as it is an invitation." Taking the pipe from his teeth he set it down on the table and folded his fingers together neatly before pressing them to his chin as he fell into the abyss of his own deep thoughts. "And I plan on being there."

_**...to be continued...** _


	7. A Loss In Shadows

 

Busying himself with his typewriter in his personal room Watson listened as Sherlock paced about the study with his violin and bow in hand as he composed an original melody that filled the flat with a somber tune. London was being drenched in a cold rain that caused the streets to empty of passers-by which in turn left the city feeling hollow, and unusually quiet. As the violin sang its sad song the flat began to feel heavy, almost as if the building itself were dreading an unforeseen event to take place that very night.

The study suddenly fell silent as Sherlock lowered the bow from the strings and stood before the foggy window that overlooked the vacant streets below. The ruby red fabric of his robe matched expertly with the red walls of the study, as if the detective had actually become one with the room.

"Holmes?" Watson stopped typing, the clacking keys now as silent as the violin, as he stood up from his chair and opened the closed door of his room to peer out into the study. "Is something wrong?"

"I wish I could say for certain." Sherlock replied as he stood with his arms folded behind his back, the violin and the bow still clutched in his hands.

"Something happening outside?" Watson crossed the room and stood beside his friend as too gazed down at the street below.

"Our spy remains steadfast to his post, the good people of London remain entombed in their homes, and I myself cannot shake a horrid sense of impending doom from my very soul."

Watson turned his attention to the stern look on Sherlock's face with an inquisitive glance. "You? I've never known you to be shaken by any turn of events, let alone events yet to come."

"Watson, I must ask a favor from you."

"Anything Holmes, name it."

"Go to Mrs. Hudson and instruct her to leave the flat. I fear repercussions from this Rathe fiend and I'll never be able to forgive myself if anything were to befall her."

"I will, but, where shall she go?"

"She has a sister who lives outside Sussex, yes? Perhaps our dear landlady would enjoy another visit with her family?"

"Perhaps. I'll ask her to go, but what do I say to her?"

"Do not inform her of the danger looming over us. She may appear meek and timid but we both know that Mrs. Hudson is not someone to be trifled with. Tell her that we insist she take a holiday as thanks for tending to us while we healed from our previous injuries. In fact," Sherlock slipped his bow into the same hand holding the violin before he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a small leather pouch containing large bills of currency. Handing Watson a bundle of an undisclosed amount he gave the final instructions to his dearest friend. "tell her the holiday is on us as additional payment to our rent."

"I will do so. When should she leave?"

"After we leave the flat tonight. Ask her to leave exactly two minutes after we pass through the rear door as to not draw any unwanted attention to ourselves. Have her pack a large bag and leave for the train station as soon as she's able. She must stay away from the city for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks? That's so long..."

"Yes. But I fear it will be necessary to her safety to take an extended leave of absence."

"I understand." Watson nodded as he carefully smoothed out the crumpled builds over his palm and turned on his heel to exit the study in search of their kindhearted landlady. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson? May I speak with you for a moment?"

Sherlock sighed despondently. "What is this weight I feel on my conscious? Could this case be my last? Or Watson... If anything were to befall my friend I would sooner take a bullet myself than to allow his death to go unanswered." Gazing through the window at the spy Sherlock grumbled a threat under his breath. "Choose your next move carefully Rathe, after enduring the psychological torment of Moriarty I shan't be taking any chances."

* * *

Night set in over London with a heavy darkness. Sherlock and Watson stood outside the rear door of their flat side by side as Sherlock pulled his pocketwatch from the deep pocket of his coat and noted the current time: 7:44 in the evening. The cold rain from hours before had left a chill in the air and a blanket of fog along the ground.

"You have your revolver, yes?" Sherlock asked as he pocketed the watch and peered around the corner of the building into the surrounding shadows.

"I do." Watson confirmed as he dry-clicked the revolver hidden in his coat pocket. "I'll keep one bullet in the chamber, but I pray we won't need to use it or any others."

"As do I." Sherlock replied as he stepped away from the flat and onto the sidewalk. "Shall we?"

"Let's go." Watson followed after his friend, all the way looking suspiciously over his shoulder for any potential threat or tail. "I just wish we could see Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't worry about her. She'll be just fine, and the further away we are from her the safer she will be."

"I do hope you're right."

"Come." Sherlock insisted as he lead the way down the foggy sidewalk in the direction of the docks. "We mustn't keep our host waiting."

The silhouettes of Sherlock's iconic deerstalker cap and Watson's cane were distinct in the shadowy light cast by the streetlamps that cut through the nighttime fog along the sidewalk in which the duo walked. The sounds of their footsteps was the only ambience of the relatively quiet streets. No trailing sound of footsteps could be heard which meant the duo had successfully exited their flat undetected.

"Two minutes." Sherlock commented as he checked the time on his pocketwatch again. He and Watson reached the docks without drawing any unwanted attention. "Keep your guard up, Watson. I fear we're being watched."

"Watched? From where?"

"Everywhere."

The sleuthing duo stepped between large wooden shipping crates and toward a large warehouse where a single light burned within. An eerie glow cast by the singular shone beneath the large gap under the massive doors and through the dirty panes of the two windows that faced the direction in which Sherlock and Watson approached.

Sherlock stopped short and pressed his outstretched arm out against Watson's chest. "Wait here. I'll enter first, you follow only when I give the signal."

"What signal will that be?"

"Listen to my words very carefully from the door. You'll know it when you hear it."

"Be careful my friend."

"Likewise."

Sherlock continued forward alone toward the warehouse while Watson stayed back several paces until the detective reached the door. While Sherlock pushed the door open Watson crouched down and jogged after his friend and kept low in the shadows as he placed himself just outside the door of the warehouse with his hand in his pocket clutched around the revolver inside.

Bold in his movements Sherlock entered the warehouse and stepped inside. The echo of Sherlock's footsteps crossing the concrete floor sounded off through the large building alerting anyone who may have been looking for Sherlock to his presence.

In the center of the warehouse Sherlock found the source of the light originating from a single lightbulb attached to the ceiling overhead and stretched downward toward the floor. On the floor in the center of the light was a beige colored tarp draped over the all too hauntingly distinct shape of a human body laying on the floor, motionless.

Sherlock stopped short at the sight of the tarp and felt his heart skip a beat.

Had an innocent person been mistaken for his alias and murdered for the bounty? Or was there something more sinister at play?

"It never gets old, does it?" Rathe's voice called out to the detective as he arrogantly approached the fearless sleuth. "Death? Loss? The senselessness of finding the body of total stranger while you're out on one of your little cases? Hello detective."

"Rathe." Sherlock acknowledged the criminal with a curt greeting. "I haven't seen you since you attempted to kill me in the Harborworth Manor."

"Come now, don't think me a fool. I know we've met more recently than that tragic night, am I right? Sherlock Holmes. Or should I call you 'Roy'?"

Sherlock gave the criminal a smug grin as he respected the fact that Rathe saw through his disguise and deduced his true identity. "It seems your eyes are sharper than that of your predecessor."

"Moriarty was a fool! An arrogant, overzealous, blind fool!" Rathe spat angrily as he pointed to the tarp on the floor with an outstretched hand. "While he toyed away with you and your little chronicler friend he failed to see the grand scheme of being in such control over your every thought and action; how he had such power over the greatest detective the world has ever known. The fact that he failed to see the easiest way to eliminate you as his only threat wasn't through mind games or little ruses, but through utilizing the one thing you value more than your reputation; perhaps even your own life, only emphasizes his foolishness. And in the end, that foolishness resulted in his downfall. But not mine."

"Rathe..." Sherlock swallowed nervously as his eyes slowly fell from his foe and came to rest upon the tarp that lay between himself and the deviant who taunted him with a vile pleasure. "what have you done?"

"I have proven myself the more cunning man." Rathe stated dryly as he took a step backward and prepared to disappear into the shadows from whence he came. "You made a fool of me at my own game, and now I have paid you the same courtesy at your own game."

Sherlock took a step forward and knelt on the ground slowly beside the body concealed beneath the beige tarp. Grabbing onto the hem of the tarp Sherlock eyed Rathe with a righteous suspicion as the criminal flashed him a sinister grin in response.

"You value trust;" Rathe continued with a sickening glee. "your little connections above all else. In order to ensure you truly suffer for my humiliation, to ensure you under the full magnitude of the situation at hand, I took the liberty of eliminating one of your connections."

Sherlock's eyes went wide with fear as he pulled back the tarp to unveil the body beneath.

"No..." Sherlock gasped as he fought to keep himself from crying out in utter pain and horror. "It can't- It's not..." His trembling hand reached out to the pale, cold face as a small pool of dark, crimson blood flowed out from the torn skin of their slit throat. "You... killed..."

"Remember this, Holmes." Rathe taunted with a merciless tone as he turned on his heels and exited the warehouse from an unseen door draped in the shadows. "You are responsible for this death. Not I."

_**...to be continued...** _


	8. Blood

Sherlock's trembling hand lowered from the pale, blank face and down to the bleeding wound in the neck. The pooling blood was deep red and seeping through the slit across his throat between Sherlock's fingers despite the pressure he attempting to apply to the devastating wound. Taking in a deep breath Sherlock fought to keep tears at bay and his voice level as he spoke to the innocent, dying man beneath his palm.

A man that Sherlock knew. A man that was completely innocent.

"Mycroft?"

Mycroft's eyes opened partially as he took in a weak, shallow breath. "...Sher..."

"Shh! It's alright, I'm here!" Sherlock soothed, though he all but shouted as he realized that there was still some fleeting life within his dying brother. "Don't talk, I'm here." Turning his head slightly he called out loudly for Watson who was waiting just outside the warehouse. "WATSON! I NEED YOU!"

Mycroft began to choke a little on blood collecting in the back of his throat. Sherlock responded by putting his other hand beneath Mycroft's head and lifted him up slightly to let the blood drain away from his throat until the choking stopped.

"Holmes?!" Watson rushed into the warehouse and spotted his friendly kneeling on the floor beside a body. The sound of choking and the sight of the blood blossoming around the body and Sherlock was enough to make the seasoned doctor feel nauseous. "Are you injured?"

"It's Mycroft!" Sherlock confirmed in a quaking voice as his hand pressed down against the bleeding throat. "Please! I need your help!"

"Mycroft!?" Watson rushed over and slid on his knees the last few inches to rest beside Mycroft and Sherlock. Quickly he pressed his fingers to the side of Mycroft's neck while he examined the deep slit that stretched entirely over Mycroft's throat. "Dear Lord..."

"Help him!" Sherlock persisted as he watched the strength and remaining color drain from Mycroft's face. "Do what you must!"

"I..." Watson knew what to do, but he didn't know what to say. How do you explain to someone that the person they are desperate to save is already dead? How could he tell Sherlock that _Mycroft_ was dead? Mycroft had been dead for some, but the poor man's heart simple didn't know it was time to stop beating. "Sherlock..."

Mycroft knew that it was too late, that he was dying. Accepting his fate with grace and dignity he gave Watson a look of appreciative respect before he gave his full attention to his brother. Weakly he reached a pale hand up to Sherlock's shoulder and tried to pull his brother downward closer to his face.

Sherlock reluctantly bowed his head over Mycroft, the smell of blood and sound of hoarse breaths was too much for the detective to endure. Through bloody lips Sherlock listened intently as Mycroft whispered one final personal message to his little brother before giving him a weak smile of approval.

"...proud of you... Sherlock."

Mycroft's hand suddenly felt limp as his fell away from Sherlock's shoulder.

"Mycroft?!" Sherlock caught Mycroft's hand as it fell and held it tightly in his own. "Mycroft!" His fingers snaked around Mycroft's wrist to check for a pulse but felt no beat beneath his fingertips. "Watson! Please!"

Despite knowing it was a fruitless endeavor, knowing that Mycroft was already gone, Watson moved to the other side of Mycroft's body and laced his fingers together into a single fist. Placing his palm down over the center of Mycroft's cold chest he began compressing the dead man's heart. With each compression what little blood that remained in Mycroft's body was forced through the horrific slit in his throat and collected on the floor in an ever growing crimson puddle around Sherlock.

"Holmes..." Watson looked to his anguished friend as he continued the pointless compressions. "I'm sorry."

"No! Don't you say that!" The emotional outburst from the always stoic detective startled the doctor. Sherlock's hand was wrapped so tightly around Mycroft's wrist that would've cut off circulation to Mycroft's fingers if he wasn't already gone. "You must save him!"

"Holmes, it's far too late. He's gone."

"NO."

"Holmes..." Watson's hands slowed their movement before he stopped entirely. Rocking onto his knees back away from Mycroft's body Watson shook his head solemnly. "I'm so sorry. There's nothing I can-"

Sherlock aggressively pushed Watson's hands away from Mycroft; pushed Watson away, as the detective himself began compressing Mycroft's chest. With each compression performed Watson could see the desperation building in Sherlock's eyes and the emotional resolve that had kept the detective safe from all harm from all the psychological torment of dealing with so many violent criminals for so many years had finally worn to its limits.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock called out like a frightened child lost in a crowd of strangers. "Please! You mustn't let him win! You must fight!"

"Holmes?" Watson spoke softly as he tried to reach his hand out to Sherlock's shoulder to support his emotional destroyed friend.

"Mycroft?!" Reeling back his fist Sherlock brought it down with a bone shattering force over Mycroft's heart as a tear fell from his eye. "Mycroft?!"

"Holmes!" Watson reached out quickly and grabbed onto Sherlock's arm before he could strike another blow against Mycroft's chest. Stubbornly Sherlock attempted to strike with his other fist but Watson grabbed onto that arm as well and held his friend back. "Sherlock! Stop!"

Exhausted, overwhelmed, defeated. Sherlock just stared at Watson with hurt and confusion in his tear filled eyes as he began breathing harshly between clenched teeth.

"Let him go. Please. Let him rest."

Enraged by Watson seemingly giving up so easily on Mycroft, passing off his brother's death as if it were any common occurrence, Sherlock pulled his arms out of Watson's grip and fell forward onto his hands at Mycroft's side; Sherlock's hands coming to resting in the large puddle of blood that poured through Mycroft's slit throat.

"Sherlock..." Watson knelt beside his friend and tried to wrap his arm around Sherlock's shoulders to comfort his friend but the detective pushed him away once again as he slipped his arm beneath Mycroft's shoulders and cradled his brother's dead body against his chest in a tight hug.

Blood saturated Sherlock's coat, his shirt and stained his neck and face as he held Mycroft to his chest.

"Stay with Mycroft." Recognizing that Sherlock needed time to himself alone Watson stood up and took a step back from the gruesome scene of the murder. The brutal sight of seeing one brother mourning the other. "I'll summon Scotland Yard..."

Leaving the detective alone in the warehouse to mourn the loss of Mycroft in a puddle of his own brother's blood the good doctor know understood the full extent of Rathe's violence and the overwhelming danger he presented not only to himself and Sherlock, but to all of London.

But it was there in that warehouse on that night that it seemed Rathe had proven himself to be a more sinister villain than Moriarty as he had found a way to defeat Sherlock in a way that neither man could have ever anticipated.

An unsettling truth set in as Watson turned to look back one last time into the warehouse. Watson's own heart began to ache as he watched Sherlock silently weeping as he held his dead brother in his arms and saw a shadow cast over the heroic detective.

Sherlock Holmes was now a broken man.

_**...to be continued...** _


	9. Broken Detective

Within minutes Scotland Yard had swarmed the docks and the warehouse that held the scene of the atrocious murder. Watson had lead Inspector Lestrade to the warehouse where Sherlock was still holding Mycroft's body in his arms. The sight of the detective covered in his own brother's blood was something so vile that the seasoned inspector couldn't compare it to anything else had ever witness during his long career.

Sherlock's arms were wrapped tightly around Mycroft, his knuckles white from the strain of holding his body for so long in such a strong embrace. Fresh and drying blood stained the side of Sherlock's face, neck, over his shirt, his coat, his sleeves and his hands. With such an abundance of blood one might mistake it for that of two men, not one. Gray irises were wide open and lost in a deep, stare that seemed to pierce through eternity. Sherlock's body was as still and lifeless as Mycroft's body as he remained steadfast and unaware of the world around him.

Lestrade kept his voice low as he commanded the officers who responded to the scene along with him to secure the dock and remain outside out of respect until after Sherlock was escorted away.

"You take care of Mycroft." Watson whispered softly as he leaned toward Lestrade's ear as they stood in the doorway of the warehouse "I'll take care of Sherlock."

"Y-Yes. Of course." Lestrade stammered as he stared at Sherlock kneeling on the ground stained in his brother's blood. Reflexively Lestrade took the hat from his head and held it against his chest as a sign of respect toward both the victim and to Sherlock himself. "We'll secure the scene. Take care of him, doctor. He needs you now more than ever."

Watson returned to his friend's side at a slow pace. Unsure of how Sherlock would react to his presence, and well aware of the psychological trauma one suffers after enduring such a horrific loss, the doctor decided to approach the detective with a calm demeanor and knelt down in front of Sherlock. Studying the detective's face Watson was taken aback. While always a man of reserved nature who kept emotions well hidden, the blankness across Sherlock's face and the hollow stare in his gray eyes sent a chill up Watson's spine.

"Holmes?" Watson addressed the detective softly as to not startle him. Sherlock's eyes remained transfixed onto the nothingness in which he stared. Lightly Watson put his hands on Sherlock's arms and let them rest there for a moment before speaking again. "Holmes. Can you hear me?"

The detective was as silent as death itself.

"Inspector Lestrade is here. He's going to help us find Rathe."

Sherlock never responded, never reacted to the sound of Watson's voice.

"Lestrade is also going to take care of Mycroft."

The mentioning of his brother's name caused Sherlock's body to flinch slightly before returning to his statuesque stillness.

"Let Lestrade take care of him." Watson insisted as he slowly tightened his hands around Sherlock's arms and began to pull them away from Mycroft's body. It was like wrestling with an iron vice as Sherlock adamantly refused to let Mycroft go. "Mycroft will be given the best care. Let him go. Lestrade will take care of him, I promise."

Sherlock's arms slowly, reluctantly unwrapped from around Mycroft's body as Watson pulled his arms apart. Watson put his hand beneath Mycroft's shoulders and guided the dead man's body down to the floor very gently all the while keeping his other hand on Sherlock's arm to give his shaken friend the much needed support he needed in that dour moment.

"That's it, nice and easy." Watson observed as he gently laid Mycroft down on the floor. Sherlock's arms were shaking from the strain of holding Mycroft so tightly for so long. The healing injury to his shoulder no doubt had been exasperated by the prolonged tight hug that Sherlock had given to Mycroft. "He'll be okay." Watson stated kindly. "You'll both be okay."

The amount of blood that saturated Sherlock's coat was alarming. Knowing that even in the dead of night there was a chance that someone could see them walking the streets Watson decided it'd be best for Sherlock to remove his coat to avoid any unwanted attention from nosy onlookers.

"Here." Moving his hand up Sherlock's arm to his shoulder Watson slipped the blood stained garment from Sherlock's arm and repeated the same motion for the opposite arm. Pulling the coat from Sherlock's shoulders Watson draped it over Mycroft as a sign of respect and compassion for the fallen Holmes brother. Nodding to Lestrade who was standing in the doorway waiting patiently Watson slipped off his own coat and wrapped it around Sherlock to hide the blood stains that remained fresh on his shirt and sleeves. "Come. We have to return to Baker Street, but just for a little while. Let Scotland Yard do their job and then you can do your job. I promise."

Lestrade walked slowly into the warehouse and watched in total silence from across the room as Watson pulled Sherlock up by his arms until the detective was standing up on his trembling legs. Sherlock's entire body was shaking and his face was a frightfully pale, blank canvas void of any emotion or awareness.

"Come on." Watson wrapped his arm tightly around Sherlock's shoulders as he escorted Sherlock out of the warehouse. "Back to Baker Street."

Lestrade looked at the dead body of Mycroft Holmes respectfully concealed beneath Sherlock's abandoned coat. "Poor devil..."

Stepping aside to let the duo pass by Lestrade watched as the good doctor lead the emotionally withdrawn detective away from the bloody scene and into the cold, dark night.

_**...to be continued...** _


	10. Overwhelmed

Watson escorted his absolutely shaken friend back to Baker Street with one arm wrapped around the detective's shoulders to entire walk. Without his coat to cover him Watson felt the chill of the night but ignored it in favor of allowing his emotionally shattered friend the comfort of the warm coat. Pushing open the door to their flat and ascending the seventeen steps to the second floor, the good doctor helped Sherlock to enter the study that adjoined their private rooms and sat him down in his large leather chair across from the second chair before the cold hearth.

Sherlock sat hunched in the chair with his arms limp over the armrests at his sides. The normally exemplary posture of the detective was but a memory as he sat completely unaware of the world around him.

"Holmes? Holmes, do you know where you are?" Watson knelt before the detective and examined Sherlock's glazed over eyes. Slipping his coat from around Sherlock's shoulders he left the garment on the floor beside himself. "You're home, you're safe."

Sherlock was abjectly silent. His eyes hollow and face blank.

"Wait here for me," Watson stated as he stood upright and put a hand briefly on Sherlock's blood stained arm. "I'll get some water."

Sherlock hadn't heard Watson speaking to him. His every thought, his every feeling was for his murdered brother Mycroft. The sight, the smell of the blood was still fresh in his mind. The feeling of Mycroft's cold body going limp in his arms was still tangible. The horrifying silence that filled the room after Mycroft died in his arms was still deafening.

The detective's senses and even his heart had been overwhelmed by this devastating personal tragedy.

"Here we are." Watson addressed the catatonic detective as he knelt down before him again with a bowl of clean, warm water and a clean white cloth. Dipping the cloth into the water Watson used it to wipe the sticky blood from Sherlock's hands in very gentle swipes. The white fabric of the cloth as well as the water steadily turned red as the blood was washed away. "Let's get you cleaned up. Don't want you to get sick."

Sherlock stared through Watson, stared through reality, as he become lost in mournful regret and the all consuming feeling of failure.

"Need to get to your neck." Watson informed the detective as he finished wiping the blood from Sherlock's palms, fingers, fingernails and the backs of his hands. As he reached the cloth upward to wash Sherlock's neck and face he saw the distant stare and became alarmed. "Holmes? Can you hear me?" Waving a hand in front of Sherlock's face Watson noted the lack of reaction as a reaction itself. "Don't worry my friend, I'll see you through this. You just need time..."

The quiet repose of Sherlock remained untouched by Watson's voice.

Watson looked down at the crimson colored water in the bowl and the irredeemably red stained cloth in his hand. "I'll fresh this up."

Sherlock's cleaned hands remained motionless as they rested atop the armrests. The blood stains that still marred his sleeves contrasted his freshly washed skin in a sickly ominous manner.

Carrying a fresh bowl of water and an untouched cloth in one hand, and a clean glass of water in the other, Watson returned to the study swiftly. Standing next to Sherlock where he sat in the chair Watson placed the bowl down on the small table that was situated between the two chairs and held the glass of water out toward Sherlock's chin.

"Drink some water, you'll feel better."

The detective didn't react or even look at the offered water presented before him.

"Holmes. Please."

Still nothing.

"Very well." Watson placed the glass down on the table and resumed wiping the remaining blood from Sherlock's neck, chin and the side of his face. "We'll try the water later."

It was all a timeless blur of motion and muffled sounds as Sherlock allowed Watson to clean the blood from his skin. The shaken detective didn't even react when Watson slipped off his hat and blood soaked shirt. Moving almost autonomously as Watson guided him up from the chair and into his personal room Sherlock sat in the chair facing the window that overlooked the alleyway behind the flat.

"Sit here a moment." Watson instructed as he waded the ruined blood stained shirt into a ball and tucked it under his arm. Opening the nearby wardrobe Watson retrieved Sherlock's red robe and carefully slipped the garment over Sherlock's arms, one at a time, and up around his shoulders. "Better?"

Same as before there was no reply to the simple question.

Watson cleared his throat as he looked to the wadded shirt under his arm. "I'll dispose of this."

Sherlock stared out through the window and at the brick wall of the neighboring building as if it were a puzzle just waiting for him to solve it. A rush of thoughts of the past, the present and the possible future filled his emotionally shattered psyche as he sat idle in the chair in silent self-induced isolation.

"I'll check on you later, Holmes." Watson stated softly as he stepped through the doorway and pulled the door partially shut behind him. "Try to rest."

Motionless and lost Sherlock remained where he sat for hours on end, his eyes never moving from that one wall.

* * *

All that night and morning every hour, on the hour, Watson would quietly, discreetly push open Sherlock's door and look in on his friend who remained where he sat in the chair looking through the window. Sherlock hadn't budged an inch, his presence was eerie; like a statue. Whenever Watson entered the room he was greeted by silence and absolutely no response to either his arrival or his questions.

Knocking at the study door drew Watson out of the room and to the unexpected guest. Opening the door Watson found himself face to face with Inspector Lestrade.

"Inspector."

"Doctor." Lestrade greeted with his hat in hand as he stepped inside the study and let Watson shut the door behind him.

"What can you tell me about the... 'case'." Watson was trying to avoid using the term 'murder' out of some unknown need, as if he could somehow protect Sherlock from harm; even though he was too far from his friend to risk him eavesdropping.

"Not much." Lestrade admitted despondently. "We can't directly link the, uh, 'case' with this Rathe despite your statement. Only Holmes himself saw Rathe in the warehouse, and even then we can't use his statement as he is too personally connected to the 'case' itself."

"I see..."

"I'm sorry. But without physical evidence there is nothing we can do to avenge Mycroft and bring his killer to justice." Lestrade craned his neck as he looked toward the partially opened door to Sherlock's room. "How is holding up?"

"Not well." Watson admitted somberly. "He's been completely unresponsive since last night. I'm worried he's gone completely catatonic."

"Is there anything that can be done for him?"

"Aside from working on the case and finding a lead that'll convict Rathe for Mycroft's murder, he needs time. I'll do my best to see him through this but I fear the only person that will bring him back to his senses will be himself." Turning his head slightly he looked toward Sherlock's door as well and sighed. "I just hope I can reach him before he becomes too lost to be saved."

_**...to be continued...** _


	11. Last Resort

Taking his leave of the flat in order to resume the investigation of the murder of Mycroft Holmes and the man responsible for the heinous act, Inspector Lestrade bid Watson farewell and reminded the good doctor to simply ask for help with tending to Sherlock if the need should ever arise. Left alone to tend to Sherlock's catatonia Watson found himself pacing about the study for hours with worry over the mental health of his otherwise unflappable friend.

Morning turned to noon with no update on the case. And as noon transited into the evening Watson had given up on expecting another visit from Lestrade. Night fell upon the melancholy flat and Watson was growing desperate to gain some kind of reaction from his dearest friend.

Steeling his own nerves Watson return to Sherlock's room to check in on the detective. Knocking on the partially opened door Watson called out to his friend as he turned on the light in the otherwise dark room. "Holmes?" There was no answer, not that Watson was expecting to receive one. Stepping inside the room he approached the chair and lightly put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder where he sat. "Holmes? Do you want some tea? Perhaps something to eat?"

Sherlock's eyes remained glazed and unfocused as he stared through the window.

"It's been almost," Watson pulled the pocketwatch from his trouser pocket and calculated the amount of time that had passed since Sherlock witness Mycroft's death. "twenty-seven hours. You mustn't do this to yourself, you must come to your senses!"

Sherlock never looked away, never acknowledged Watson whose hand was slipping down from his shoulder to his arm resting atop the armrest of the chair.

Snaking his fingers gently around Sherlock's wrist Watson counted the detective's pulse. Strong but rapid pulse, cold skin and absolute obliviousness. Symptoms of physical and mental exhaustion.

"Come." Watson pulled lightly on Sherlock's arm but the stubborn man wouldn't budge from his seat. "You need to sleep."

As still as the night Sherlock remained where he sat unaware of Watson standing beside him, or the thundering of his own heart rapidly beating in his chest.

Shaking his head Watson relented and placed Sherlock's arm back down on the armrest. "Forgive me my friend, but this will be for your own good."

Retreating from Sherlock's room for a moment Watson ventured into his own room to retrieve his medical bag. Inside the black leather bag Watson stored his medical equipment: stethoscope, thermometer, various bandages, gauze, cottonballs, sterile syringes, powdered medication and tonics, alcohol and numerous forms of pain killers and sedatives.

Bringing the bag back into Sherlock's room Watson sat the bag on the floor beside the chair and opened the top before rummaging through the contents. Dabbing a cottonball with some of the alcohol Watson pulled Sherlock's robe down from his shoulder and off his arm until his bicep was exposed. Selecting a fresh syringe and a small vial containing a clear liquid Watson measured a light dose and sighed as he looked at Sherlock sadly as he wiped the cottonball over his arm before injecting him with the medication.

"It's just a sedative. It'll make you sleep and slow down your heart." Retracting the needle from Sherlock's arm Watson wiped down the injection sight with the cottonball a second time before putting aside the syringe and putting his hand under Sherlock's arm and forcefully hefted the detective up to his feet before the sedative kicked in. "You need to lay down, now."

Guiding Sherlock out of the chair Watson lead the quickly weakening detective to the bed against the wall several feet away. As Watson helped Sherlock to lay down on the bed the detective's hazy eyes began to close and his body went limp. Keeping one hand beneath Sherlock's head Watson laid Sherlock down against the pillow and watched his friend as Sherlock's breaths slowed and evened out as fell into the peaceful rhythm of sleep.

"Rest will do you good, I just wish I didn't have to resort to medication." Watson admitted as he slipped his hand from beneath Sherlock's head. Pulling the thick brown quilt up from the end of the bed Watson covered his sleeping friend and took a deep breath as well. "I know you don't believe me, that is if you can even hear me, but you will be okay. I promise." Patting his hand on Sherlock's arm Watson stood up from the bed and took his leave of the room, turning off the light and closing the door softly behind him. "You just need time."

* * *

Watson was reluctant to return to his room to sleep that night. Choosing to stay in the study, the room adjacent to Sherlock's room, Watson sat in his chair with his hands folded neatly over his chest and feet propped up on the small table in an attempt to sleep as comfortably as possible. It was almost noon when a knock at the door startled Watson awake, his body jerking forward with surprise and his feet slamming down on the floor before him.

"Goodness, me." Watson blushed with embarrassment briefly before wiping a hand over his tired, sweaty face as he rose to his feet and marched over to the door. His hand dropped from his face, the sensation of two days worth of stubble still lingering in his touch. Opening the door he was greeted by Inspector Lestrade once more. "Inspector."

"Doctor." Lestrade noticed Watson's unusual unkempt appearance and asked accordingly. "Are you alright doctor? You don't look like you've slept a wink since I saw you last."

"I'll be alright. It's Holmes who needs the rest." Clearing his throat Watson changed the subject from himself and back to the situation at hand. "Has there been any breakthrough in the case?"

"Yes, but no, I'm afraid." Lestrade pulled his hat from his head and held it in his hands, as was his usual mannerism when feeling either anxious or uncertain. "We discovered signs of a break-in at Mycroft's estate but there was no evidence to link the break-in directly to Rathe. I'm sure there is something we've overlooked that Holmes would be able to find. Is he up to an investigation?"

"No." Watson answered with a dismayed shake of the head. "I had to sedate him last night in order to get him to finally rest. I hesitate at the idea of asking him to investigate the murder of his own brother, especially in his current state of mind."

"Yes, I agree. Normally we'd never allow anyone with ties to the victim to assist in the investigation, but we've run out of leads and Holmes is our best choice. I've already cleared it with the court in the event Holmes is successful. So," he fidgeted with his hat nervously between his fingers. "it's up to you."

"Me? I can't investigate this case; and I won't abandon Holmes in his hour of need."

"I'm not asking you to do such a thing, but I am asking that you try to encourage Holmes to make an effort. Not for Scotland Yard, but for his brother." Lestrade stopped fussing with his hat as he gave Watson a bemused smirk. "You see, Mycroft had given numerous charitable donations to the Scotland Yard even before we had enlisted the help of Sherlock. The least we can do is ensure his murderer is brought to justice."

"I see... Thank you Inspector." Watson was sincerely grateful for the visit. "I'll do what I can."

"Very good. We'll keep looking for clues but... well... you know."

"Yes, I do. Goodbye Lestrade."

"Goodbye."

Watson closed the door as Lestrade stepped away and turned to look at Sherlock's closed bedroom door across the study. Pulling himself together Watson walked over to the closed door of the quiet room and turned the knob slowly. The room was brightly lit by the afternoon sun as it pierced through the window and illuminated the small area.

Approaching the bed Watson looked down and was relieved to see that Sherlock was still asleep and looked as disheveled as Watson. Returning his hand to Sherlock's wrist Watson counted his much slower and normal pulse.

"Hate to wake you, but I fear you must return to the case." Watson confessed as he gently lifted Sherlock's eyelid to check his pupil reflex. "Scotland Yard has reached a dead end." Retracting his hand from Sherlock's sweaty, unshaven face the doctor sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock. "Mycroft needs you to solve the case."

Sherlock's head lolled slightly and his lips parted as he uttered a single, hoarse word. "...Mycroft?

_**...to be continued...** _


	12. A New Game

The single spoken name was a blessing to Watson as his friend finally responded to the world around him for the first time since the murder. Deafening silence that once filled the flat began to fade as Sherlock slowly regained his senses. Gray irises appeared partially between eyelids as the detective awoke from the sedative administered by Watson hours before.

"Holmes? How... How do you feel?" The hesitation in Watson's voice was as palpable as it was audible. "Are you in any pain? Nausea?"

Sherlock simply shook his head 'no' as he gazed tiredly at the gray hued wall beyond Watson.

"Perhaps some tea? It'll do you good to have something in your stomach."

Sherlock sighed as he looked at his friend with a cold facade. "You said... Mycroft needs me to work on the case, did you not?"

"Y-Yes. Scotland Yard is at a loss."

"And I'm the only one who can solve the crime. I'm the only one who can bring justice to... Mycroft."

"Yes..."

Sherlock remained stationary on his bed as he mentally contemplated the role he was seemingly destined to continue to play. He was tired, so very tired. Giving years of his life to the prospect of justice, to fight for a light to shine through the darkness and to identify the most nefarious minds in all of the world had left the skilled detective absolutely exhausted; mentally, physically and emotionally.

Watson eyed Sherlock's complexion warily. "You're still looking quite pale. Perhaps you should rest a moment more, or-"

"No." Sherlock replied bluntly as he slowly sat upright on the bed. His entire body was trembling from weakness, having not eaten in almost two days had left the already compromised detective all the weaker. "I must find Rathe. I must."

"But you won't do yourself or anyone else any good if you push yourself too far. You must pace yourself, my friend." Watson lightly put his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, relieved that Sherlock didn't try to push away his touch as he done the night of the murder. "I won't watch you work yourself to death."

Lifting a shaking hand to his shoulder Sherlock brushed Watson's hand aside before throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and standing upright very slowly. "Please wait for me in the study, I need a moment to freshen my clothes."

"Right, of course." Watson respected Sherlock's request and departed from the room to give his friend some privacy. "I'll be outside waiting."

Sherlock watched as Watson left the room and closed the door. Alone for the first time since he regained his senses Sherlock found himself for the first time in his life frightened, and feeling completely lost. Pressing his hands to his face he rubbed at his eyes and breathed heavily as he fought back the urge to begin weeping for the loss of his brother as well as the personal loss of direction. Taking in a deep breath he tilted his head back and stared up at the blank ceiling as he mentally calmed himself, forcing his mind to regain its usual emotional composure and steel.

Retreating to his private washroom Sherlock stood before the mirror and washbowl, his face a ghost of its former self in the reflection. Placing his hands into the bowl of cool, clean water he splashed it over his face to cleanse his sweaty face, ignoring the stubble for the time being.

Pulling his hands from his face he stared at his own frightful reflection with a loss of identity. Sherlock put his hand on the side of the mirror and pulled it forward, revealing a small six by six square compartment built into the wall concealed behind the mirror. In the compartment was a small wooden box made of oak.

Dropping his gaze from the box Sherlock looked down at his trembling palms before clenching them into tight, white knuckled fists of unfathomable anger. Anger not only toward Rathe who so brutally murdered Mycroft, but at himself for feeling weak.

Useless. Vulnerable. Worthless. Foolish. Broken...

Pushing the self deprecating thoughts from his mind Sherlock pressed his palms against the wall and stared intently at the box once more.

"Brother... I will avenge your death."

* * *

Watson hastily returned to his own room to change into fresh clothes of his own, and to wash his face before shaving the unkempt stubble that grown due to two days worth of neglect. Running a comb through his hair quickly Watson shrugged off his old clothes and in favor of something clean from his wardrobe. Straightening his tie he stepped out of his room and stood in the study with his hands concealed in his pockets as he awaited for Sherlock to join him.

Nervously Watson's hand fumbled with the pocketwatch in his trouser pocket as he stared anxiously at Sherlock's closed door. The good doctor could hear Sherlock moving about across the old floorboards in his room which was a good sign. The detective was active and anxious to get back out onto the street to begin the case.

The door opened and Sherlock appeared dressed in a dark gray suit with an even darker gray overcoat thrown on top. A dark maroon scarf was draped carelessly around his neck and shoulders. Despite washing his face Sherlock hadn't shaved, a rugged stubble remained along his chin and jawline.

Running his fingers through his slicked back dark hair Sherlock tugged the lapels of his coat as if to straighten the fabric. "Shall we?"

"Holmes, are you ready to go back out?" Watson asked tentatively as he studied his friend's every move, his every reaction to the most basic questions and activities.

"Yes. I'm certain." Sherlock spoke quickly as he crossed the room pass Watson and opened the door to the study with a forceful jerk. "Come. I must speak with Lestrade immediately."

_**...to be continued...** _


	13. Trailing a Killer

Passing by numerous hansons without so much as breaking stride Sherlock walked to Scotland Yard at an impressive and determined clip. Watson struggled to keep up with the reinvigorated detective but refrained from complaining as the good doctor knew that once Sherlock had made a decision there was nothing that could be done to change his mind. Pushing through the mass of people walking about the sidewalks and streets Sherlock entered the front of the large brick and mortar building that housed Scotland Yard.

"Inspector Lestrade, where is he?" Sherlock demanded as he addressed the first police officer he laid eyes upon.

"In his office, Mr. Holmes." The officer replied quickly as he gave the unkempt detective an odd look.

Hustling down the hallway Sherlock isolated the door to Lestrade's office and pounded on the wooden frame with the side of his fist loudly. Not waiting for a response Sherlock turned the knob and forced the door open, with Watson hurrying in after him.

"Lestrade." Sherlock stood before the oak desk littered with files, photographs and written reports as Lestrade looked at him with wide eyes from his chair on the opposite side of the desk. "What information have you collected?"

"Holmes! I wasn't expecting to-"

"Information."

"Right, right..." Lestrade sifted through the numerous files on his desk and isolated one in particular. Picking it up he handed the folder to Sherlock who all but snatched it from Lestrade's hand. "There's not much to go on, but a second look at the warehouse might-"

Watson watched silently as Sherlock studied the file, his presence all but forgotten to the preoccupied detective.

"Who were the officers responsible for these notes and collecting the evidence?"

"Uh, Clark, Wilson and Harrison."

"Harrison? I know no Harrison." Sherlock observed as he eyed the file and read over the details; memorizing each word and letter meticulously.

"New chap. Works in a smaller precinct in Brighton." Lestrade replied as he rose from his desk and walked over to a wooden cabinet in the corner of his office. Opening the doors he retrieved a bottle of scotch and three glasses. "When Mycroft- I mean, your brother was... murdered," Lestrade sounded uncomfortable as he poured even amounts of the scotch into the glasses. "I had asked for additional help during the investigation. Harrison is the only additional man that could be spared."

Sherlock logged away the explanation as he finished scanning the file and closed it quickly. "This file is incomplete."

"There was very little evidence or clues to be found." Lestrade stated as he held out a glass of scotch toward Sherlock, who casually brushed it away with the wave of his hand. "You're of course free to return to the warehouse to examine it yourself."

Sherlock dropped the file on Lestrade's desk before turning on his heel to exit the office as quickly as he entered.

Watson followed after Sherlock while giving Lestrade an apologetic glance as he too exited the office in pursuit of his rushing friend.

"Poor fellow..." Lestrade lamented as he downed his glass of scotch and poured the untouched glasses of scotch back into the bottle. "He'll never be the same after this."

* * *

Sherlock continued his quick pace as he returned to the docks where the tragic, and unforgivable murder had transpired. The entire area had been barricaded off by Scotland Yard with a thick rope and patrolling police officers. As the detective neared the docks his pace suddenly slowed as the smell of the sea air reinvigorated the vivid memory of the night he and Watson approached the warehouse in search of Rathe.

"Holmes?" Watson managed to catch up to his friend as the detective stood idle several yards from the rope barricade. "Are you alright?"

"Fine." Sherlock replied curtly as he looked down at the ground before moving forward again. "Let's get this investigation underway."

"Right, of course..."

Sherlock approached the rope separating the rest of the populous from the crime scene and lifted it up with his hand. Stooping down the detective stepped under the rope and finally set foot at the scene of the crime for the first time since that dreadful night. Watson hustled after Sherlock, preparing himself for any potential emotional outburst from the detective if the responsibility ended up proving itself too strenuous.

"Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson." A patrolman acknowledged their arrival with a respectful nod and stepped aside to let them pass down the docks to the warehouse undisturbed.

The patrolling officer immediately recognized both Sherlock and Watson, even though the former of the two appeared more slovenly than would ever be expected for a man of such dignity. Allowing the duo to pass by the officer resumed his post at the barricade to ensure that no one bothered the two men during their investigation.

A secondary rope barricaded the warehouse from the rest of the docks. A police officer stood guard outside the main entryway to the building while another officer paced about the rear of the building.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and let it out very slowly as he approached the door. Motioning with his hand for the officer to step aside Sherlock pushed open the door and entered the warehouse where he had held his brother in his arms as died.

The interior of the warehouse was dim, cold and smelled of a sickly sweet scent as the unmistakable odor of blood still hung in the air. A deep red stain on the floor marked the place where Mycroft bled to death, and when Sherlock had cradled his brother's body until being forced to leave by Watson.

Standing beside the stain Sherlock stared at the ominous discoloration as a knot formed in the pit of his stomach. Though long dried and significantly darker than it had been there was no mistaking the puddle as anything other than a pool of blood spilled from the vein of an innocent man.

"Holmes?" Watson joined Sherlock at the edge of the stain and resisted the urge to put his hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "Are you up for this?"

"Yes, I will prevail." A fine sheen of sweat had begun to form over Sherlock's face it grew a shade paler. "I can handle this, Watson."

"Okay... I trust your judgment."

Bending down to the floor Sherlock eyed the stain with a keen stare as he began analyzing the unseen details that only he could detect.

Approximately two-thousand spilled milliliters of human blood from a single body: fatal. Blood has coagulated and dried entirely; air was slightly humid and cool - will affect drying time, overall elapsed time since death: fifty-two hours. Victim was carried into the warehouse and placed on the floor: blood and dust provides and outline of the body. One set of footprints in the dust leading to the body from the rear of the warehouse, second set leading away in the same direction. A third set, fresher approached the body then turned away: shoe prints match all sets of footprints. Trail of footprints created by the eye-witness report has identified suspect on the night of the murder: Eric Rathe.

"Rathe carried Mycroft here by himself."

"What? How can that be?" Watson was dumbfounded by Sherlock's revelation. "Mycroft was as tall as you and a man of a broad build. How did one person carry him into this warehouse?"

"Over the shoulder." Sherlock replied as he stood upright and looked to the shadows that concealed the interior rear portion of the warehouse. "Rathe used the tarp that concealed Mycroft's body to carry him over his shoulder. The tarp concealed Mycroft's body during transport while preventing any of his blood from staining Rathe's clothing." Pointing to the faint but present footsteps on the floor Sherlock continued. "One person entered this building from the rear; the same person who carried Mycroft into the warehouse. Eric Rathe."

"Can we prove that it was Rathe who killed Mycroft by the footprints alone?"

"Afraid not, Watson." Sherlock lamented as he approached the shadowy depths of the warehouse in search of the door that Rathe had used to enter and exit the building. "The shoes Rathe wears are an unremarkable style, and in a very common size worn by hundreds of other men in this city alone. We can follow the trail to an extent before it'll fade away and become marred by other prints on the street; that is if he continued his journey on foot rather than hailing a hanson."

"Then where do we go from here?"

"Back to Scotland Yard." Sherlock replied as located the emergency door purposely camouflaged from the outside to keep thieves from breaking in at night. Unlocking the door Sherlock pushed it open and stepped out of the warehouse and breathed in the salty sea air that billowed about along the docks. "We must examine the tarp that concealed Mycroft's body."

"What on Earth for?" Watson asked as he tailed along behind Sherlock out of the warehouse. "If the tarp prevented any blood from staining Rathe's clothes I don't see how examining it will help matters."

"We won't be examining the tarp for blood stains." Sherlock stated bluntly as he marched down the sidewalk following the trail until it disappeared. "Rathe went West, is he remained on foot." Turning on his heel Sherlock changed direction back toward Scotland Yard. "We'll be looking for fibers from Rathe's own clothes clinging to the bloodied tarp."

_**...to be continued...** _


	14. Evidence

Watson stood outside the iron gates of the door of the evidence room at Scotland Yard while Sherlock himself stood inside, hovering inquisitively over the tarp draped out over the surface of the desk against the wall. A single bright light shone down blindingly over the tarp, causing Sherlock to cast a deep, dark silhouette over the beige colored tarp. Using a magnifying glass and a pair of tweezers Sherlock painstakingly examined every fiber woven into the tarp as he sought the much needed evidence required to convict Eric Rathe for the brutal murder of Mycroft Holmes.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson." The new recruit to Scotland Yard approached the doctor as he stood outside the door with his arms folded tightly over his chest. "Inspector Lestrade was looking for you. He's in his office."

"Oh?" Watson turned to look at the young officer, the unfamiliar face made it difficult to recollect the name mentioned earlier. Dropping his arms to his sides Watson turned to face the young man. "Your name is... Harrison, yes?"

"Yes, sir. Leon Harrison from Brighton."

"Thank you Harrison." Watson cleared his throat as he went to take a step pass the officer toward Lestrade's office just a few doors down.

"He's looking for clues, yeah?" Harrison asked as he stared through the iron bars at Sherlock, who remained unaware of any eyes watching his movement.

"Yes." Watson confirmed with a confident tone. "And if there is anything to be found then it'll be Sherlock Holmes who finds it."

Journeying down the corridor Watson knocked on the closed door to Lestrade's office before letting himself inside. Inspector Lestrade was standing with his hands in his coat pockets and back to the door as he looked out the lone window of his office out to the streets beyond the building.

"Inspector, you wanted to speak with me?"

"Yes, doctor." Lestrade turned around slowly to look at the good doctor as he approached the desk in the middle of the office. A tray with a steaming teapot and two cups upon two saucers sat idle like an elegant decoration. "I need to know how well Holmes is holding up."

"He seems to be fine. For the moment..."

"For the moment?"

"He's still in mourning for his brother, it'll be some time before he's able to return to work without an emotional weight on his shoulders." Watson explained sympathetically. "All things considered he's performing admirably. He managed to locate a trail left behind by Rathe heading West."

"West, eh? I'll be sure to have my men check for any suspicious activity or persons West of the docks. Anything else I should know about Holmes' condition?"

"Aside from being exhausted, no, Holmes doesn't need any special supervision while he investigates the case." Watson arched his brow a little as he studied Lerstrade's reaction. "That is what you were trying to ask, was it not? Does Holmes need to be watched?"

"In a way, yes." Lestrade admitted, feeling rude and embarrassed by the question. Motioning with a nod toward the tea on his desk Lestrade offered the drink to both Watson and Sherlock. "This was brought in for me by Harrison a few minutes ago, would you mind giving it to Holmes? If he's as tired as you say then I don't want him collapsing from poor nutrition."

"Good idea Lestrade, but aren't you going to have any? It smells wonderful!"

"Me? No. I don't care for tea unless it's specifically prepared by my wife. She has a special touch, I swear to it!"

Watson chuckled lightly at the remark as Lestrade took his leave of the office. Buttoning the front of his coat Lestrade spoke to Watson with a slightly turn of his head over his shoulder. "I'll search the docks and focus on any activity toward the West. You take care of Holmes."

"I will."

The door to the office closed behind Lestrade leaving Watson alone inside the isolated room. Reaching out for the teapot Watson picked it up by the handle and opened the lid to peer down at the contents contained inside. The tea leaves were gathered together in a neat bundle within the metal strainer as it steeped inside the steaming hot water. There was a sweet smell emanating from the leaves, but despite his familiarity with most types of tea Watson couldn't place the scent, and therefore the type of tea that had been left for Lestrade.

"Not Jasmine," Watson observed as he poured himself a cup of the tea and took in the intoxicating aroma once more. "but it should be something pleasant nonetheless."

Taking a tentative sip Watson tried and failed the place the flavor of the tea.

"Very sweet. How unusual..."

* * *

Sherlock's eyes were bloodshot from strain as he peered through the lens of the magnifying glass in the midst of the intense light. The tarp had failed to provide a single shred of evidence despite Sherlock's expectations. Surely during transport from the warehouse to the evidence room what precious fibers that had clung to the tarp had been lost along the way.

"Damn it!" Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table in an enraged response. Reaching up one hand he turned off the light and pressed his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as fatigue had brought about an intense headache that mirrored his disappointment. As he leaned forward against the desk he planted his palms flatly against the desktop a male voice addressed him through the bars.

"No luck, eh? The tarp didn't have anything useful on it?"

Sherlock turned his head and eyed officer Harrison watching him from the other side of the door. "Evidently not." Sherlock replied coldly as he stared at the officer with red eyes.

"You'll find something, I'm sure of it." Harrison displayed an unusual grin as he watched the dismayed detective starting to lose faith in his own abilities to solve the case. "Chin up!"

Turning away from the young, unfamiliar officer Sherlock bowed his head and closed his eyes as he mentally contemplated what little information he had managed to gather upon his return to the warehouse several hours prior. The silence of the evidence room was disrupted suddenly by the distinct sound of crashing china and heavy 'thud' against a wooden floor.

The sound itself was coming from a room few doors away from the evidence room.

"What was that?" Harrison asked with a dumbfounded tone as he looked about confusedly. "Sounds like some clumsy bloke dropped a box or something."

Sherlock lifted his head quickly and turned his gaze through the iron bars of the door, his eyes scanning the corridor for any sign of haste or panic as he traced the origin of the loud commotion through his familiarity with the layout of the large building.

"That was not a box." Sherlock deduced instinctively, noting the way the commotion resonated was inconsistent with a single item falling. It was ominously close as well. "That sound came from Lestrade's office!"

_**...to be continued...** _


	15. Tainted Tea

Sherlock marched to the iron door of the evidence room with purpose in each step. Grabbing onto the locked handle of the door, Sherlock turned the lock and jerked the door open with a strong pull; leaving the door wide open in the process as he exited the room. Pushing past Harrison the determined detective turned sharply to proceed down the corridor to Lestrade's office just two doors away and began knocking on the door with frantic pounds.

"Lestrade? Lestrade!" There was no answer from the inside of the office. Sherlock stopped pounding on the door and listened for any sound through the door, his trained ear catching the sound of someone whimpering in pain caused adrenaline to surge through his veins in response. "Lestrade?!"

Putting his shoulder to the door Sherlock forced it open with great strength and stormed into the office, stopping short just inside the door frame. Scanning the room quickly Sherlock's eyes fell upon a twitching body laying on the floor; the scattered remnants of a tea cup and saucer next to the body atop a faint puddle of warm tea.

"Watson?!" Sherlock's heart sank and his face paled even further as he knelt beside his suddenly ill friend. "Watson? John! Can you hear me?"

Watson was laying partially on his right side and his back. His legs were slightly bent, his right arm outstretched across the floor and his left arm draped over his stomach as he laid twitching and unresponsive on the floor despite Sherlock's pleading words asking him to acknowledge his presence.

Pressing his hand down on Watson's chest Sherlock called to his friend again. "Watson? Watson!"

Wilson had heard the worry in Sherlock's voice from the front desk of the building and came rushing into Lestrade's office to see what the commotion was all about. "Mr. Holmes!" His gaze caught sight of Watson twitching on the floor in front of Sherlock from where he knelt. "What has happened to Dr. Watson?!"

"Seek a doctor," Sherlock told the responding officer without taking his focus from his ill friend. "now!"

"Right away, sir!"

Sherlock took in a breath and steeled his mind as he set about examining the scene of the incident and assessing Watson's current condition. The shattered teacup and the spilled tea all around Watson where he laid told the detective that Watson had been drinking the tea when he suddenly fell ill. The illness itself caused the fainting spell and the mild seizure, which resulted in Watson dropping the teacup on the floor as he lost consciousness.

Gently Sherlock checked all around Watson's head and his neck but found no sign of an injury. The fainting wasn't caused by any trauma to the skull, and there was no sign of a struggle to contradict his assessment. No physical damage had been done to Watson.

Pressing his palm down against Watson's chest Sherlock could feel his and count his pulse. "Irregular heartbeat," moving his hand to Watson's eyes he lifted his eyelids and examined the doctor's pupils. The doctor's body began to slowly still as the effects of the seizure mercifully ceased. "pupils are dilated," using the back of his hand Sherlock felt Watson's left cheek just below his eye. "skin feels unusually dry." Sherlock's eyes lit up with worry as he recognized the symptoms but needed the proof if he were to save Watson's life. "Poison."

Wilson returned to the office with a doctor following behind; a black leather medical bag clutched in his hand. "There he is." Wilson stated as the doctor joined Sherlock on the floor beside Watson's body. "This is where we found him."

"Thank you." The doctor sat his medical bag on the floor and rummaged through its contents until he found his stethoscope. Placing the pieces into his ears the doctor ran the bell along Watson's chest. "I'm Dr. Nero. Can you tell me what has happened to him?"

"He was poisoned." Sherlock stood up from where he knelt and focused on the teapot sitting atop the tray on Lestrade's desk. Picking up the teapot Sherlock removed the lid and looked down inside. The distinctly sweet aroma from within confirmed his suspicion as his removed the tea strainer inside the pot and sniffed the tea leaves contained inside. "Belladonna. Otherwise known as deadly nightshade."

"Nightshade?" Dr. Nero pulled the stethoscope from his ears and looked up at Sherlock with an unspoken fear in his eyes. "Are you certain?"

"Entirely." Sherlock replaced the strainer inside the teapot and replaced the lid. "Belladonna leaves, also known as 'The Devil's Herb', has an unmistakably sweet aroma that masks the potent toxins within the leaves. Fortunately the hot water used to steep the leaves has diluted the poison lessening its effects. What can you do for him?"

"I'll have to have taken to the nearest hospital, and have his stomach pumped. I'll also need to watch him very closely for the next forty-eight hours to ensure that there's no residual poison in his system."

"Right." Sherlock looked to Wilson from where he stood. "Who delivered the tea?"

"It was brought into Lestrade's office by Harrison."

"Harrison?" Sherlock's gray eyes narrowed with suspicion and his jaw clenched. "And where did Harrison get the tea?"

"I don't know, sir. I didn't ask."

"Where is Harrison now?"

"Why he's-" Wilson looked out through the doorway expecting to see Harrison still standing at his post outside the evidence room, but he was gone. The door to the evidence room was closed with no sign of Harrison anywhere. "He's gone!"

"Gone?!" Sherlock's face flashed a tint of red from repressed rage at the answer. "Wilson, find Harrison! We need him for questioning, now!"

"Right away, sir!" Wilson complied with Sherlock's request and disappeared from the office in search of the elusive young officer who had mysteriously vanished.

Dr. Nero addressed Sherlock with a firm tone. "Help me get him outside."

Thinking quickly Sherlock placed the teapot in the nearby cabinet where Lestrade kept his scotch. The teapot was evidence and needed to be protected from any potential sabotage, but Watson's life was on the line. For the moment the teapot would have to be forgotten until Watson was safely in the back of a hanson on his way to the hospital.

Hooking his arm under Watson's shoulders Sherlock sat his friend upright on the floor, then took Watson's limp left arm and draped it around his neck. Dr. Nero did the same to Watson's right arm. Working together Sherlock and Nero managed to lift Watson up from the ground and escort the poisoned doctor out of the office, down the corridor and through the front door of Scotland Yard where the hanson that had initially brought Nero to Scotland Yard was still waiting.

"To which hospital are you taking him?" Sherlock asked as he pulled open the door to the hanson and helped Nero lift Watson up onto the bench in the back.

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

"I shall be along shortly." Sherlock confirmed as he watched the doctor climb into the cab and hover over Watson. "Take care of him."

"You have my word."

Sherlock stepped back and motioned for the cabbie to whip up his horse. As the hanson raced away from Scotland Yard with the poisoned doctor in tow Sherlock turned and stared at the building behind him with his tired, strained bloodshot eyes. The red intensified the gray color of his irises which caused them to shine brightly with a focused glare.

"Rathe has planted a mole within Scotland Yard."

_**...to be continued...** _


	16. Naming A Suspect

Squaring his jaw Sherlock hastened his step as he returned to Scotland Yard with the intent of identifying the mole who had attempted to poison Lestrade, succeeded in poisoning Watson and was now attempting to sabotage the investigation into Mycroft's murder. Having sent Wilson to locate Harrison who had disappeared shortly after Watson collapsed Sherlock found himself alone, truly alone for the first time since he had befriended the good doctor.

Despite Scotland Yard having a reputation of being honest and above corruption it seemed that the trust had been shattered by the act of a single man. Sherlock would have to continue the investigation alone if he were to solve the case properly.

Instinctively Sherlock returned to Lestrade's office to retrieve the poisoned pot of tea before the mole could locate it and destroy the evidence. Stepping over the shattered teacup and spilled tea on the floor Sherlock made his way over the cabinet where he had safely stored the teapot, opened the door and collected the evidence to be examined later.

"Mr. Holmes." Wilson located the detective inside Inspector Lestrade's office. The officer's face displayed the sincere sense of failure he felt as he reluctantly updated the detective on his current task. "I'm so sorry Mr. Holmes, but I can't find Harrison. And no one knows where he lives."

"Harrison wouldn't return to his home. Not now." Sherlock stated as he examined the teapot in his grip. Turning the pot carefully in his hands Sherlock spotted a personalized marking on the bottom of the porcelain vessel. "He'd return to his hotel."

"Which hotel? How can you be certain, sir?"

"Northumbridge Hotel." Sherlock stated as he pointed to the inscription on the bottom of the teapot. "This particular teapot is the property of the Northumbridge Hotel, this is where Harrison is staying."

"I'll set out to the hotel at once!"

"Yes, do that. AFTER you locate Inspector Lestrade."

"The Inspector? What for?"

"That is where you'll find Harrison. And when you do," Sherlock pointed a finger at Wilson almost accusingly. "deliver to him this message: if anything happens to Watson I shall tie the noose around Harrison's neck personally and hang him from the highest gallows in all of London."

"But... I don't understand. Why threaten Harrison?"

"Harrison has proven himself to be exceedingly clever. He'd know that I would identify the place of origin for the teapot and link him directly to the poison, therefore he wouldn't return to the hotel. Rather he'd locate Lestrade under the false premise of either seeking information or delivering information in an attempt to sabotage Lestrade's ability to locate Rathe."

"What're you saying Holmes?!" Wilson was abjectly stunned by Sherlock's deductions. "Are you saying that Harrison is working for Rathe?!"

"Yes." Sherlock replied coldly as he moved across the office and passed by Wilson who was standing idle in the doorway. "And I can prove it."

* * *

Watson awoke to a foul taste in his mouth, his twisting stomach threatening to rebel against him at a moment's notice. Opening his eyes Watson found himself staring at an unfamiliar blank white ceiling overhead, but the familiar smell of a private room abundant in disinfectants and various medications gave him enough information to recognize that he was in a hospital.

"Ah, Dr. Watson. You've been unconscious for two hours, now." The doctor who had saved his life walked up to the bed with his hands folded behind his back. "I'm Dr. Nero. Do you remember what happened?"

"I was... at Scotland Yard." Watson replied honestly as he took in the appearance of the doctor. Young in aesthetic, yet his face carried years of experience. Dark brown honest eyes shined through small spectacles, and his hair color matched those very eyes. Tall, slim and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache spoke volumes of his professionalism and exquisite training as a physician. "I was in Inspector Lestrade's office. The tea..."

"Yes. You drank tea that was contaminated with nightshade."

"Nightshade?" Watson's eyes went wide with fear that transitioned into relief as he realized that if he was no conscious then that meant the poison had been properly extracted from his system. "That's poison..."

"Indeed. Your friend Sherlock Holmes correctly identified the poison and I was able to deliver the proper anti-toxin after having to pump your stomach. Had he not identified the poison so quickly I fear that you would've been lost."

"Holmes is an expert on poison, I wouldn't doubt his instincts for a moment." Watson looked around the private room curiously before returning his gaze to Dr. Nero. "Might I ask where he is?"

"He said he'd be along shortly, until then get some rest doctor. If your condition remains stable I will allow you to be discharged in the morning."

"Thank you Doctor."

* * *

Sherlock carried the teapot to the evidence room but stopped at the sight of the closed door of the room. Even in his haste to Lestrade's office Sherlock distinctly remembered leaving the door open upon his swift exit, yet now it was closed. Peering through the bars Sherlock saw that the tarp he had been examining had disappeared, undoubtedly taken by Harrison.

"The fink." Sherlock sneered as he unlocked the door to the evidence room and locked it behind himself after entering the room.

Placing the teapot down on the examine table Sherlock took a clean glass vial from the drawer and poured a sample of the contaminated tea inside the vial to be used as evidence. Taking every precaution available Sherlock unlocked the bottom drawer of the table and placed the teapot, as well as the vial, inside and locked the drawer, rather than locking the newly collected evidence in an official evidence locker to protect it from either Harrison or any other spy planted within the walls of Scotland Yard by Rathe.

Looking down at the now empty evidence table Sherlock's brow arched with puzzlement.

"Despite my assurance the tarp bore no evidence to convict Rathe it appears that Harrison believed otherwise. Why?"

Thinking back to that dour night in the warehouse, thinking back to how Mycroft's body had been brought to the warehouse and of the tarp covering his body, a new idea formed in Sherlock's mind.

"Perhaps the trace fibers weren't left upon the tarp, but upon Mycroft's own clothes instead."

Turning his head slightly to the numerous evidence lockers that surrounded him his eyes locked onto a cabinet with a fresh label that read: 'Holmes, Mycroft'. Tentatively Sherlock approached the locker, his hand trembling as he opened the locker's door, and peered inside at the cardboard box that contained Mycroft's bloody clothes.

Placing the box down on the exam table Sherlock reached down inside and pulled out the clothes, grimacing at the amount of blood that had saturated into the fabric and of the sickly sweet smell that clung to every fiber woven throughout the garments.

Unfolding Mycroft's bloodied suit jacket Sherlock placed it on the desk and smoothed it out as if Mycroft himself was going to be stopping by at any moment to pick it up to wear once again. As his hands smoothed over the lapels and the breast pockets of the jacket Sherlock felt something foreign contained within the left pocket. Something small, very thin and very lightweight.

Using his fingertips Sherlock reached into the pocket and pulled out the object to study. His gray eyes narrowed as he immediately recognized the item in question, his skin growing hot with rage as he held the item in his hand.

The Ace of Spades.

_**...to be continued...** _

 


	17. Conflicting Evidence

Sherlock held the blood stained playing card in his hand. Staring at the ominous symbol that represented death that had been dyed a sickly crimson hue beneath the layer of Mycroft's blood a sense of dread and eureka fell over the determined detective as he stood alone in the evidence room within the brick building that housed Scotland Yard. Forcing himself to concentrate on the card and ignore the blood Sherlock turned on the overhead light and examined the card itself carefully.

Yellowing of the card's face hints to old age. Fading of the ink around the edges and back of the card is indicative of prolonged use by human hands smudging the print. A musty smell was present along with the blood; the card wasn't properly stored. Faded inscription on the back of the card reveals two faint letters; initials: E.R; Eric Rathe.

"Could he truly be so foolish, so arrogant as to plant the very evidence that would convict him?" Sherlock wondered to himself as he placed the card in the breast pocket of overcoat for safekeeping. "No. This is a red herring. There is more to this, I know it."

Tired and overwhelmed Sherlock decided it'd be best to leave Scotland Yard and check in on Watson until Harrison or Rathe could be found for proper questioning.

Turning off the light in the evidence room Sherlock discreetly took his leave, locking the door to the evidence room behind him as he departed for the hospital where Dr. Watson had been admitted after being poisoned by the tainted tea.

It was a long walk to the hospital from Scotland Yard but the fresh air did the detective good. It gave him the opportunity to think, to concentrate on the evidence at hand rather than the circumstances in which it had been collected. The dull ambience of the steadily vacating city streets bustling with inconsequential passersby created the perfect white noise for the detective to begin piecing the puzzle together.

As he walked an intense heat washed over him and his head began to ache. Putting his right hand to his left arm he rubbed slightly as a haunting discomfort made its ugly presence known through scars marring his flesh.

"I'm sorry, Watson..."

* * *

Laying on his right side to face the wall Watson was attempting to drift off to sleep, but the unfortunate chain of events of the past week kept him from turning off his mind long enough to get adequate rest. With his eyes closed Watson listened intently to the world around him; shuffling feet of doctors and nurses completing their rounds in the neighboring rooms, the squeak of wheelchairs being pushed about down the corridors, muffled crying from worried loved ones emanating sadly throughout the building. The stench of medicine, cleaning solvents and iodine was also proving to be a potent stimulant working against his tired mind.

Residing himself to the bout of insomnia Watson nearly jumped when he felt a hand reach out to his arm and grab hold. Turning his head slightly Watson saw that the hand belonged to his friend Sherlock Holmes.

"Holmes, you've arrived." Rolling from his side to his back Watson sat upright and flashed his friend a grin of relief. "You saved me. Thank you, my friend."

"Of course, Watson." Sherlock sounded somber, his face still pale and his limbs startling to tremble. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Holmes, are you alright?" Watson could sense there was something amiss, something dreadful.

"Me? What the devil do you mean? It was you who had been poisoned."

"I swear you've grown paler since the last I saw you, and you were already frightfully white." Watson pointed to Sherlock's hands as he studied his friend's demeanor. "You're also trembling. Have you eaten anything in the past twenty-four hours?"

"I'm afraid not." Sherlock admitted much to Watson's surprise. Pocketing his hands Sherlock attempted to regain his composure before he continued speaking with his friend. "I haven't had the opportunity. Been quite busy."

"Please, take care of yourself."

"Likewise. I understand Dr. Nero will release you in the morning so as long as you continue to show symptoms of improvement. This is good. I need your help if I'm to solve this case."

"I'm certain you'd solve it even if I were absent."

"I'm not so sure." Slowly Sherlock pulled his right hand from his waist pocket and moved it to his breast pocket to extract the bloody playing card. "You see," Sherlock showed Watson the card briefly before securing it back into his pocket. "I found this among Mycroft's belongings. Rathe had apparently left a calling card for me to find, yet the card itself can be easily traced back to him and subsequently condemn him to death. Why would a man who has displayed an incredible intelligence make a mistake so ostensibly foolish?"

"It's a false lead." Watson replied sharply. "Maybe it too is an invitation?"

"I had suspected the same thing, yet my gut instinct is telling me that there is something more to this."

"Holmes, you're exhausted." Watson stated in a kind tone of voice. "Please, return to Baker Street. I will meet with you in the morning and we can discuss this further."

"I..." Sherlock was too tired to argue, his judgment too clouded to think properly. "You're right Watson. I shall retire for the evening and meet with you in the morning."

"Good." Watson sounded genuinely relieved by Sherlock's obedience, while also worried about such compliance. "A restful night will do wonders for you. And for me."

"You're right." Sherlock sighed as he took a step back from the bed and bid Watson farewell. "Until morning, rest well my friend."

"You do the same."

The sun was beginning to set over the city, basking the streets in an orange glow as shadows crept along the streets creating an ever darkening presence throughout London. Watson watched as his friend strolled out of his room, leaving as quietly as he entered. The door shut behind the detective with a soft click that was barely audible to the doctor's ears.

* * *

Sherlock had only walked a single block from the hospital when a police hanson pulled up alongside him and came to a stop. Sherlock looked at the carriage and recognized Inspector Lestrade's face peering out through the window at him with a stern gaze in his eyes.

"Holmes! Get in." Lestrade urged as he pushed the door open for the detective. "Wilson has located Harrison. He's waiting in the interrogation room for you."

"Excellent timing." Sherlock declared as he joined Lestrade in the back of the carriage. Sitting opposite side of the inspector the detective pounded his fist against the ceiling of the cab twice. "Let's be off!"

The cabbie whipped up the two strong horses hefting the hanson, causing the carriage to speed off down the sidewalk and toward its final destination of Scotland Yard.

"Wilson informed me of Harrison's deception just as Harrison himself arrived to join my search party, as we examined buildings to the West of the dock. Harrison tried to run but Wilson and Clark managed to catch him."

"Good work. Good men."

"Yes. Wilson informed me of what had happened to Dr. Watson regarding the tea. I'm so sorry."

"Watson is holding his own." Sherlock replied curtly. "I just checked in on him, he'll make a full recovery."

"That's good to hear."

"Now, Lestrade, you stated that you don't drink tea unless it's prepared by your wife?"

"That's right."

"Please inform her that she had inadvertently played a part in saving your life."

"I will, but she'll never let me forget it."

"And she shouldn't."

"What was in the tea? Wilson said something about 'nightshade'."

"Deadly Nightshade. Leaves of a highly toxic plant mixed in with non-toxic tea leaves to create a sweet and alluring poison." Sherlock folded his hands together neatly as he leaned forward in his seat toward Lestrade. "Harrison. You claimed he was an officer of the law from Brighton, yes?"

"Yes. That is correct."

"His credentials were cleared?"

"Yes, of course. Everything about Harrison appears to be in order, that is, save for his behavior and betrayal."

"Indeed. Lestrade," Sherlock leaned back and focused on the inspector with an intense gaze. "I fear that this Rathe fiend has connections that surpass even my own. We must tread lightly lest we fall prey to another trap."

"I fear you're right, Holmes. What's your next play?"

"First I question Harrison." Sherlock decided firmly as he closed his tired eyes and began to mentally chronicle the proper questions he'd need to ask their captured mole. "Then from there I track down Rathe and bring him to justice."

_**...to be continued...** _


	18. Resisting Temptation

The interrogation room was dimly lit by a single lightbulb hanging down from the ceiling over a small wooden table. Metal shackles had been inserted into the surface of the table with a long, thick metal chain connecting the shackle to a second shackle embedded in the stone floor beneath the table. The room itself was uncomfortable small with a lone tiny window with bars that allowed only the faintest glimmer of natural light to enter the room. Walls of dark green and gray made of cold bricks outlined all four sides of the room with a melancholy presence.

Harrison was sitting in a chair at the desk, the shackles locked tightly around is wrists rested atop the wooden table. Wilson was standing against the wall next to the door with his arms silently folded over his chest as he stared at the deceptive snake in custody as he awaited the arrival of Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade.

A creaking click at the locked door filled the room as the door's handle was unlocked and pushed open by Sherlock himself. A file was tucked under Sherlock's arm as the detective entered the room. Lestrade was standing behind him, but rather than entering the room he motioned for Wilson to join him outside leaving Sherlock alone with Harrison.

Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the table and eyed Harrison with a burning, unspoken anger evident in his gray eyes. Studying every detail of Harrison's facade, watching the suspect for any sign of breaking or violence, Sherlock took the chair on the opposite side of the table and stared down the corrupt officer of the law.

"Leon Harrison." Sherlock addressed the suspect in a firm, embittered tone of voice. Slapping the file down on the desk Sherlock flipped open the file and revealed the official record detailing Harrison's past as an officer, as well as other personal details. "Officer of Brighton Scotland Yard. Four years of experience, no marks on your record. Only child, orphaned at age fifteen; mother died during childbirth and father died of tuberculosis. Lived on the street for six weeks until being taken in by a kind neighbor." Sherlock closed the file and gave Harrison a leery glance. "I'm curious as to why this kind supposed neighbor would allow you live in poverty for so long before opening their door to you."

Harrison swallowed nervously as Sherlock began questioning his somber past.

"The file goes on to say that you attending a prominent school well reputed for its education regarding chemistry and botany. Yet here you are," Sherlock's hands folded neatly together atop the file as he leaned forward to stare directly into Harrison's eyes. "a man who had taken an oath to uphold the law, and oath you've obviously forsaken; rather than applying your impressive education to science. Why is that?"

"S-science just wasn't as appealing in practice as it was in theory, that's all."

"I see..." Sherlock never broke eye contact as Harrison began to fidget nervously where he sat. "I know a man, a professor, who specialized in botany and had a gift for chemistry."

Harrison's eyes began to dart away guiltily from Sherlock as the detective used his reactions to follow a trail leading directly to his boss.

"He was also a demented genius who used his gift for his own selfish gratification while others around him suffered. This professor," Sherlock continued as Harrison began to sweat around his hairline. "also had a knack for recruiting impressionable young students to do his bidding while convincing these students that he is somehow doing them a favor by allowing the students to perform shady activity in his stead."

Harrison tried to lean back from the table but the shackles kept him bound to the table and uncomfortably close to Sherlock.

"I believe that this neighbor you claim to have opened their home to you was in fact this professor. Professor James Moriarty."

Harrison began to breath quicker as he became increasingly nervous.

"Correction." Sherlock paused for a moment before continuing on. "The soon to be, _late_ , Professor James Moriarty."

Visibly Harrison began to tremble with fear as Sherlock honed in on the truth revolving Harrison's past and true motives.

"Considering Moriarty is destined for the gallows, it seems unlikely that you'd continue to work for a dead man." Sherlock sat upright in his chair, his gray eyes never swaying their focus from Harrison's face. "But a lieutenant of sorts to act in Moriarty's place... That's entirely plausible."

Harrison tried to pull away at the shackles but the metal kept his wrists from budging from the restraints.

"You know what's truly interesting about public execution?"

Sweat began to drop from Harrison's temple, his skin almost as pale as the detective's as his nerves set on fire.

"The gallows holds more than one noose. I often find myself wondering who the second man will be hanging beside Moriarty when the time comes. Maybe it'll be Rathe, but then again, seeing as we can't seem to locate Rathe at the moment the odds of the rope tightening around someone else's neck are being stacked against those who aided Moriarty and Rathe. Someone like-"

"Alright! Alright! I confess!" Harrison burst as the pressure had finally proven itself too much for him to bear. "I did it! I poisoned the tea! But, but..." he stammered with a sincerity that reflected his internal regret. "I wasn't trying to hurt Dr. Watson! The poison was meant for Inspector Lestrade..."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded as Harrison began to whimper in his seat across from him. "Why poison Lestrade?"

"Because he was getting close to Mr. Rathe's hideout. I was ordered to incapacitate him and stall the investigation until Rathe could move. It's just... I didn't anticipate Lestrade turning down the tea and Dr. Watson drinking it instead."

Sherlock accepted the answer though he still had more questions to ask. "When I went to investigate Watson's collapse I left the door to the evidence room open. When I returned the door was shut and the tarp was missing. Why take the tarp despite explicitly stating that there was no evidence to be found upon the tarp?"

"Mr. Rathe didn't want to take any chances." Harrison explained calmly, his voice remaining steady which was indicative of honesty. "He told me to bring back the tarp so he could burn it."

"I see..." Sherlock's right hand absentmindedly rubbed at his left arm. The desire to ask about the Ace of Spades found in Mycroft's pocket seemed like the next logical question, but there was something that Sherlock couldn't explain telling him to not speak a word of his discovery. "And where is Rathe hiding now? He wouldn't return to the hotel now that Scotland Yard is searching for him."

"No, sir." Harrison confirmed solemnly. "Mr. Rathe has a second hideout that he uses when it's too dangerous for him or his men to be seen on the streets."

"Where is it?"

"The abandoned train depot just outside of the city. The buildings are abandoned but the property is privately owned by an unknown person. You'll need a warrant to search the property."

"Clever..."

Tears began to flow down Harrison's face as fear, regret and panic began to set in. "Can... Can I stop now? I told you everything I know."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded once. Though he wouldn't admit it Sherlock was exhausted to the brink of collapse and needed to rest. Pulling the file from the table he rose to his feet and approached the door to the evidence room, and stopped in the doorway for a moment to look back at Harrison over his shoulder. "Harrison, you were never a consort to Moriarty or Rathe, you were a victim."

"I... what?" Harrison asked with a choked sob in his throat. "What do you mean, sir?"

"The death of your mother, though tragic was natural. The death of your father, however, was not."

"I... I don't understand."

"Your father died of tuberculosis despite living in outstanding conditions and never venturing anywhere questionable. The fact that he was a lone victim of that dreadful disease indicates that he had been specifically targeted by a madman. Moriarty no doubt."

"How... can..."

"Moriarty is as clever as he is dangerous. My guess is he had seen you as an opportunity waiting to happen and ensured that he 'befriended' you while you were still young and impressionable. Being in mourning after the death of a loved one would also affect your better judgment as you would be so desperate to get off the street that you would've listened to anyone who promised you a warm bed and a future."

"Moriarty... He... killed my father?"

"Yes. I know he did it though I cannot prove it. I'm sorry." Sherlock turned away from Harrison before stepping through the door. "Under the circumstances I will speak to Lestrade and have your sentence reduced."

The door to the interrogation room clicked shut behind Sherlock as he met Lestrade in his office just down the corridor. Handing Harrison's file to Lestrade to take Sherlock nodded with respect. "Did you hear the confession?"

"Every word. Good work, Holmes. I'll do what I can to obtain a proper search warrant for the depot."

"Good."

"Until then," Lestrade put his hand to Sherlock's shoulder very lightly as he gave his colleague an reassuring glance. "go back to Baker Street and get some rest. We'll contact you as soon as we're able to move in on Rathe."

"Yes... Thank you, Lestrade." Sherlock appreciated the leave he had been given and readily accepted the offer. "I will await your word."

The compliance of Sherlock emphasized how truly tired the detective felt. Rather than trying to argue or stubbornly remain at Scotland Yard despite his orders the detective was willing to return to his flat to do nothing but wait for his next action. Waiting and nothingness had proven themselves to be a more dangerous foe to Sherlock's mind than any scheme perpetrated by any criminal in all of the United Kingdom.

Lestrade shook his head sadly as Sherlock walked out of his office and down the corridor. "Poor bloke. He's absolutely exhausted."

* * *

Hailing a hanson Sherlock sat quietly in the carriage alone as he fought back the pain of the excruciating headache that had been steadily creeping up on him all day. Putting his hands to his face he leaned forward, his elbows balanced atop his knees, and breathed slowly hoping that the deep breaths would somehow abate the terrific pain settling in.

The hanson jerked to a stop as the carriage pulled alongside the curb outside 221b Baker Street. "Here we are, sir." The cabbie called down to his lone passenger.

Fumbling with the handle of the door Sherlock dropped his hands from his face and did his best to regain his composure before stepping down from the carriage onto the sidewalk. Reaching into his waist pocket Sherlock retrieved a small bundle of notes and handed them to the cabbie without a word before stumbling up the small stoop and into the safety of the flat.

Without Mrs. Hudson or Watson the flat felt incredible hollow, cold and lonely.

Resisting the urge to curl up on the floor in the foyer and fall asleep Sherlock clumsily ascended the seventeen steps to the second floor where his study and room awaited him.

Where the small wooden box hidden behind the mirror awaited him...

Pushing open the door to the study Sherlock looked to the opened door of his bedroom and stared for a moment before crossing the room. The wooden box was sitting on his bed, just waiting for his return...

_**...to be continued...** _


	19. Vices and Virtues

Shrugging off his overcoat onto the back of his chair in the study Sherlock returned to his room with his eyes transfixed entirely on the enigmatic wooden box left sitting idle on his bed. But it wasn't the box itself that held Sherlock's intrigue, it was the secretive contents contained within the box that was of the detective's true interest.

A secret.

Pale hands lifted the box from where it sat and held it in a tight grip. Slowly Sherlock moved his thumb the brass latch that held the lid of the box shut and flipped the latch up. As the lid lifted Sherlock felt a twinge of hot shame wash over him, the intense heat radiating from his body becoming too much to bear.

"Forgive me Watson, but... old habits truly die hard."

Within was a six inch snippet of surgical tubing beside a vial of liquid cocaine and a syringe. The trio of familiar items greeted Sherlock's eyes as the box was opened fully. The drug, the shame that Sherlock had hidden away for several years, had remained untouched as a promise to Watson as the detective swore to refrain from ever using drugs after the good doctor helped him to get clean of the horrid substance.

But desperation proved itself to be far more destructive than any drug could ever be.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed and sat the box on his lap. Rolling up his left sleeve to expose the bend in his arm Sherlock eyed the fresh needle mark that had been created earlier that morning. A mark that mirrored so many older scars that had long since healed. A mark that soon would have a twin as the detective used the length of surgical tubing to tie off his arm and loaded the syringe with cocaine.

Pressing the tip of the needle to the vein just beneath his skin Sherlock injected the deadly drug into his system, grimacing at the sharp pain as the needle broke through the skin and pierced the vein as it had done countless times before.

Untying the tourniquet from around his arm the drug surged through his system with a relentless rush. Sherlock's heart began to race, his pupils dilated, his skin glistening with sweat as the effects of the cocaine had become as apparent as the drug itself was deadly.

Setting the box aside Sherlock sighed and wiped his hand over his mouth as he returned to the study and snatched his overcoat from the back of his chair. Rummaging through the breast pocket he pulled out the Ace of Spades and stared at it with a burning curiosity that could only be placated by uncovering the solution to the card's purpose.

"Why was this in Mycroft's pocket? Rathe would never act so foolishly, his arrogance would forbid it." Sherlock pondered aloud as he began pacing back and forth across the study. The card was held tightly between his fingers as he tried to understand its purpose, tried to understand how something so perfectly symbolic could have any ties to the case at hand. "The card has been aged prematurely by chronic exposure to salty sea air. The card reflects the cruelty of Rathe's actions yet can prove nothing. Why? Why is it there?"

"You're overthinking things again, Sherlock." A familiar voice seemed to call out from nowhere and everywhere all at once. "Try to simplify it. The card had to be placed there. It was no accident, not an oversight."

"Mycroft?!" Sherlock stopped pacing mid-stride and looked about with wide eyes as he recognized the voice but knew it was impossible to hear it. "No, it can't be."

"Yet it is."

"Mycroft." Sherlock turned to look at the mirror over the mantle of the hearth and caught a glimpse of his dead brother standing in the middle of the study just behind Sherlock. "How are you here?"

"You know exactly how I came to be here." Mycroft replied curtly as Sherlock turned around again, this time to look directly at him. "And you know what you have to do to make me go away."

Sherlock's eyes fell to the red needle mark on his arm and restrained a regrettable sob. "I cannot." Shaking his head Sherlock's hands began to tremble and his grip on the card fell entirely loose. "I cannot face reality."

"Yes you can, brother. You've faced worse."

"No. You're my brother. I failed to protect you. There is no reality worse than failing to protect your family."

"But you have protected your family." Mycroft stated as he gave Sherlock a faint grin. The seldom seen confusion Sherlock's face was almost amusing to the deceased elder Holmes. "You know what I am referring to. Think."

"Watson?" Sherlock asked tentatively as if unsure of his own logic.

Mycroft nodded once as Sherlock understood the true weight of his words.

"Watson will be ashamed of me." Sherlock admitted as he rolled his sleeve back down over his arm with overwhelming grief. His heart began to pound and his head ached as his blood pressure increased with emotional distraught. "I had promised him that I'd never partake of cocaine or morphine for the remainder of my days. I failed." A sharp pain shot through his chest causing his hand to clutch at the fabric of his shirt directly over his heart. "I failed him!"

"Brother..." Mycroft, or the at least the hallucination of Mycroft, just stared at Sherlock with a blank face. "Watson will understand. It was he who took care of you in the wake of my death, did he not?"

Sherlock's face paled as he tried to place together the fragments of his scrambled memory.

"It was Watson who patiently waited for you to come to your senses, correct? And it was Watson who watched over you silently as you picked up the case."

The true depth of Watson's friendship and loyalty to the detective was enough to wrest free an emotional sob of unspoken gratitude from Sherlock's throat.

"And when he finds you in the morning he will again come to your aid."

"What... What are you saying, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's expression softened slightly as the hallucination itself began to fade. "You know as well as I that once you've cleaned the drugs from your system your tolerance level defaults to nothing. The dose of cocaine you injected into your bloodstream is too potent for your body to handle."

Sherlock's legs buckled suddenly causing the detective to fall to the floor onto his knees. His hand was clutching tightly at his chest as his heart began to beat faster and faster as the severity of the situation become more apparent.

"You're going to lose consciousness." Mycroft stated as his image began to fade even further and Sherlock's eyes began to slowly close. "And your heart is going to stop as you slip into cardiac arrest. But do not panic. It is nearly dawn. Watson will find you."

"Watson..."

Falling to his side onto the floor of the study Sherlock felt his strength draining away as his heart fought to continue to beat as the cocaine wreaked havoc in his body. Rolling onto his back Sherlock's partially opened eyes began to droop as his breathing slowed and his heart soon followed suit.

"Yes." Mycroft's visage faded entirely as the hallucination disappeared from Sherlock's mind.

"Watson..." Sherlock's words were but a slurred whisper heard only by himself. The last of his strength left his body through these unheard words as his hand fell limply to his side from his chest. "Please... Find me..."

_**...to be continued...** _


	20. The Heart of the Matter

Watson happily exited the carriage of the hanson as he returned to the flat of 221b Baker Street. Paying the cabbie for his services Watson pulled on the lapels of his suit jacket to straighten the fabric and smoothed out the wrinkles as he walked up the small stoop of concrete steps to enter the flat. The foyer was dark as Sherlock never used lights when he returned late at night, relying on his keen memory of the layout of the abode to navigate without colliding with any furniture.

"Holmes?" Watson called out for his friend as he ascended the seventeen steps to the second floor where his and Sherlock's rooms were located. "Holmes, are you here?"

The emptiness of the flat was weighty as the doctor set foot on the second floor. Without Mrs. Hudson going about her daily routine in the early morning hours throughout the building the quiet ambience gave the building a somber presence. The stillness from the second floor was also unsettling as Sherlock was a famously light sleeper who seldom slept in through the morning.

"Holmes?" Watson turned the knob of the door leading to their shared study and pushed the door open. "Holmes, are you-" As he stepped into the room Watson's eyes immediately fell upon the body of his friend laying motionless on the floor in front of the cold hearth. "Oh God, Holmes?!"

Sherlock was deathly pale. A fine layer of cold sweat clung to his skin and drenched through his shirt over his chest and under his arms.

"Holmes?!" Watson fell to his knees and pressed his two forefingers down against Sherlock's neck to check for a pulse. There was none. "Holmes!" His hand moved up to Sherlock's mouth to check for any breaths, and like his pulse, there were none.

But Sherlock's body was still warm. He hadn't fallen into cardiac arrest too long before Watson returned. Watson lifted Sherlock's eyelids, his pupils were not fixed or dilated, there was still a chance to save him!

Reacting on pure doctorly instinct Watson pulled open Sherlock's shirt, the buttons audibly popping open in sequence, and laced one hand over top the other before compressing the center of Sherlock's chest with a precise, strong rhythm. It was an exhausting practice but it was the only way for the doctor to revive his downed friend.

"Damn it, what happened?!" Watson all but shouted as he fought to restart Sherlock's stilled heart beneath his working hands. As Watson finished the first round of compressions he felt a twinge of haunting fear as the memory of his fruitless endeavor to revive Mycroft was still fresh in his mind. The life drained from Mycroft's body right before his eyes; it would haunt his dreams for the remainder of his days, and he'd be damned if he let the same fate befall Sherlock. "I won't let you die like this Holmes... Come on!"

There was a moment of tense silence as Watson leaned back on his knees while leaving his hand on the center of Sherlock's chest. There was little response to the compressions which worried Watson. Just as he was about to begin a second round the detective suddenly took in a weak shuddering breath as his heart fluttered to life and resumed beating on its own.

"Thank Heaven..." Watson sighed with a slight chuckle in his voice. Gently Watson slipped his hand beneath Sherlock's head and lifted his friend up from the floor as he studied his revived friend carefully. "Holmes? Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"...Wat...son...?" Sherlock slurred with a pathetic whisper. "I'm... sorry."

"Sorry? For what? What have you done, Holmes?"

Sherlock weakly lifted his right hand to point to his left arm. "I'm... sorry."

Watson looked down at Sherlock's arm as he rolled the sleeve upward along Sherlock's forearm with one hand, while Watson's other hand continued to support Sherlock's upper body. The sight of the fresh needle marks that were visibly present on Sherlock's arm made the doctor feel sick to his stomach as he shook his head with disappointment.

"Damn it, Holmes! You promised..."

"I know... I know!" Sherlock openly lamented as the guilt welled up inside of him with a most horrific sensation. "I'm a fool..."

"No." Watson disagreed as he put his hand over top the needle marks that scarred Sherlock's arm with sincere sympathy. "You're in pain." Watson forced Sherlock up into a sitting position on the floor beside himself where he knelt. "You're in pain, you're confused. You're distraught in a way you've never felt before." Hefting Sherlock's slender frame up from the floor and onto his feet Watson escorted his sick friend at his side into the bedroom to rest in comfort. "You're first instinct was to find a way to dull the pain, while also hastening your ability to solve the case. Of course the temptation of an old habit would be too much for you to bear. At least alone."

"Watson..." Sherlock would've sobbed if his pride wasn't still so prominent. Allowing Watson to carry him over to his bed Sherlock angrily swept the box off his bed with as much strength as his weakened arm could muster. The wooden box smashed on the floor, shattering the vial of cocaine with a satisfying crash in the process. "I will never-"

"I know." Watson interrupted calmly as he helped Sherlock to lay down on the bed. Guiding his friend down slowly Watson took in Sherlock's sickly pallor and drastically weakened vitals signs. "Try not to think about it."

"I don't think I can do that." Sherlock admitted with a feeble confession. His eyes watched intently as Watson leaned over him and pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. "I feel... hot."

"You're running a temperature." Watson confirmed as he retracted his hand from his friend's forehead. Crossing his arms over his chest Watson stated his hasty, but accurate, diagnosis. "It's a result of the cocaine, no doubt."

"I wanted to solve the case..." Sherlock confessed with a childlike innocence to his voice. "I need to bring justice to Mycroft! I must!"

"I know why you did it," Watson empathized in a low tone as he stepped into the private washroom of Sherlock's bedroom to retrieve a clean cloth and cool water. Returning to Sherlock's bedside Watson wrung out the excess water into a basin and folded the cloth neatly into a rectangular compress. "I just wish you hadn't."

"As do I..."

"Here." Watson placed the cold compress over Sherlock's forehead before sitting himself down in the chair next to Sherlock's bed. "It'll be extremely difficult but you need to rest. It'll take time for the drug to clear from your system."

"How can I rest knowing that I'm failing my brother?"

"You're not failing Mycroft, you're _still_ working on the case."

"Yes, yes, yes... But I should've solved it by now!"

"What do you mean Holmes?" Watson was unaware of the events that took place while he was hospitalized for the nightshade poisoning. "What have you uncovered?"

"There was... a card in Mycroft's pocket." Sherlock stated with utter confusion in his voice. "The Ace of Spades."

"Rathe used the same card to threaten you. Why should this card be such an unusual discovery?"

"Because the details of the card point explicitly to Rathe as Mycroft's killer. It's the _perfect_ clue! It HAD to be planted! But why? Why would Rathe's ego allow it?"

Watson stopped for a moment to think about the intriguing question as a second question, just as interesting, came to his mind. "Holmes... Maybe the question you should be seeking to answer isn't 'Why was the card planted', but 'by whom'?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed with deep contemplation as he turned his head to look at Watson. Gray irises flashed with a new sense of vigor as Watson's words had given him more than just comfort in his time of need, but of hope!

"Watson..." A faint smile creased Sherlock's pale lips. "I think you've solved it!"

_**...to be continued...** _


	21. The Final Confrontation

In spite of his outward appearance depicting the shadow of death lingering over his soul Sherlock pushed himself upright on the bed, swung his legs over the edge and planted his feet firmly on the floor. As he rose up to stand on his quaking legs Watson rushed to his side from where he had been sitting and put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to hold his friend steady.

"Holmes? What in the world are you doing?" Watson tried to keep Sherlock from walking away with a firm grip. "You must lay down and rest!"

"I will." Sherlock replied with an honest nod as he lifted Watson's hand from his shoulder to push past him. "After I place Rathe in custody."

"Holmes," Watson persisted as he watched his ill friend exit the bedroom and pick up his overcoat from the back of the chair. "this is not a matter to be taken lightly!"

Sherlock slipped the sleeves of the overcoat over his arms and hustled through the opened door of the study to descend the stairs. Watson rushed after Sherlock with a swift gait as he was determined to keep his friend from doing anything foolish.

"Please, you've suffered what equates to a heart attack!" Watson explained as he caught up to Sherlock at the base of the stairs. "If you push yourself too hard you will collapse again, and I fear I won't..."

"Watson." Sherlock took in a deep breath as he spoke softly. "I must do this. Not for myself, but for Mycroft." With a deeply sincere smile he patted Watson's shoulder once. "And for you."

"For me?"

"Upon Mycroft's murder Eric Rathe had taken one brother from me," Sherlock's hand tightened its grip on Watson's shoulder as he spoke. "I'll be damned if he took you, too."

The emotional depth in Sherlock's reasoning had stolen the words from Watson's mind. The reserved detective seldom expressed true emotion, let alone wore his heart on his sleeve when regarding his friends or his family. At a loss for a response and unable to bring himself to tell Sherlock to wait until he had recovered before stopping Rathe, the good doctor relented and allowed Sherlock to finish the case.

"You've solved it, then?"

"Yes and no."

Watson's brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to understand Sherlock's answer.

"I have the solution but it was you who solved the case, Watson."

* * *

Inspector Lestrade had returned to his office in an attempt to officiate a search warrant for the train depot outside of the city. Finding little evidence connecting Rathe to Mycroft's murder or criminal activity had proven itself an increasingly difficult task to justify such a warrant, but the inspector couldn't afford to cast aside their only lead.

Pulling open the drawer of his desk to retrieve a warrant the inspector began filling it out while also trying to think of what he'd say to a judge lest the warrant comes under challenge. A hasty knock at the office door caused Lestrade to look up from the paper on his desk as Wilson entered the room without waiting for an invitation to enter.

"Inspector!" Wilson stood in the open doorway with a yellow tinged telegram visible between his fingers in his outstretched hand. "I just received a message from Mr. Holmes!"

"A message? What has happened?"

Wilson approached the desk to hand the message to his superior without another word.

Lestrade took the telegram, read the message quickly and folded it back up. A sheepish grin briefly flashed over his face as he looked to the officer standing before him. "Change of plans, Wilson."

* * *

Sherlock sat beside Watson on the carriage of the hanson as the cabbie sped through the streets to the Western side of the city. The smell of the salty sea became increasingly potent as the two neared their destination and prepared for their final confrontation with Rathe at the vile madman's stronghold along the pier.

"You're certain about this?" Watson asked in a low voice. "You know this where we'll find Rathe?"

"Absolutely."

"What of the train depot you mentioned?"

"A false lead." Sherlock stated with a curt reply. "Harrison was far too impressionable to question Rathe or Moriarty. When he had been told about a supposed hideout at the depot he never questioned it, and believed it without hesitation. The card was aged by the sea, the depot is surrounded by hills and mountains."

"The depot is a red herring." Watson deduced with a simple nod of his head. "Harrison had been used as a ploy in an attempt to lure you away."

"Precisely. Since Harrison truly believed that the train depot was of importance that belief resulted in a truthful response despite being a lie. Truly ingenious exploitation of the human mind."

"And this location at the pier, how do you know this is the correct place?"

"The card." Sherlock put his hand over the pocket that head the card as he spoke. "Aged by the sea, and planted to ensure Rathe's downfall."

"Who planted the card?"

The carriage suddenly halted as the cabbie brought Sherlock and Watson to their destination in a timely manner. The cabbie waited for his two passengers to pay their fee and he'd be on his way.

What was once a grand two story tavern that offered food and shelter to passing sailors had been deserted by the previous caretakers when the tavern fell into financial ruin. The exterior of the building was covered in mildew, the wooden siding split and faded from weather abuse and human neglect. The windows were boarded up from the outside to prevent anyone from looking in, the door was partially broken from its hinges but still managed to close. A gaping hole in the roof had eroded the wall of the second floor suite, creating a massive opening that overlooked the rocky shore of the sea below.

"Come Watson." Sherlock hurried out of the carriage and set foot on the broken, poorly maintained sidewalk. Looking up at the decrepit and seemingly abandoned tavern that sat alone on the wharf a sense of unease fell over the seasoned detective as he could feel eyes watching him from above. "Lestrade is already inside."

"Lestrade?" Watson sounded surprised by the idea that Lestrade had beaten them to the scene of the crime. "Why on earth is Lestrade here?"

"I asked him to come." Sherlock gave Watson a smug glance before approaching the door of the tavern. Pushing the aged wooden door open with a single thrust the detective strolled inside the tavern and stared at Rathe who was in handcuffs, his arms bound behind his back, with Wilson and Lestrade standing on either side of the captured criminal. "Excellent timing, Lestrade."

"Yes, your tip was-" Lestrade caught sight of how sickly Sherlock looked and paused midsentence. Clearing his throat Lestrade finished his thought without asking Sherlock about his appearance. "Your tip was completely accurate. We arrived just as this fiend was attempting to flee out the back with the tarp we had collected as evidence."

"Tampering with evidence?" Sherlock arrogantly quipped as he approached Rathe who was glaring with pure fiery hatred at the detective and the doctor. "What a shame. Especially considering the tarp yielded no results. Too bad Harrison was too eager to please you to listen to me."

"You can't prove anything, Holmes." Rathe spat with a self-righteous pride as shouldered Wilson away from himself. "There is no trace of my person on your poor brother's body, nor would I ever confess to committing such an act." A demented grin flickered on Rathe's thin lips as he taunted Sherlock. "Although I must admit it would be a truly satisfying boast to proclaim. I must say," Rathe took in Sherlock's sickly facade as well with a demented pleasure on his face. "you look unwell. Are you ill? Or are you addicted?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw in frustration to prevent himself from saying something threatening that could render the arrest questionable or bias in light of the gruesome circumstances involving the personal connection between Sherlock and the murder of Mycroft at the hands of Rathe.

"I feel I must admit your operation was quite clever, a truly Dolos empire. A power built upon deception, trickery and treachery. But with this power came great arrogance."

Keeping his composure Sherlock reached his hand up to his breast pocket of his overcoat to retrieve the bloodied Ace of Spades. Holding the card between his index and middle fingers Sherlock showed the card to Rathe and turned it slowly to ensure that Rathe could easily see and recognize the item.

"This card," Sherlock stated with a stern voice as he watched Rathe's eyes steadily filling with fear. "was found in Mycroft's pocket. This card belongs to the deck of cards you keep in your possession. The deck itself is in your own pocket."

Lestrade nodded to Wilson who quickly patted down Rathe's jacket and found the aforementioned deck of cards within. Reaching into the pocket Wilson retrieved the deck and handed it to Lestrade.

"Look through that for me, Lestrade." Sherlock instructed calmly. "You'll find all but the Ace of Spades contained within the deck."

Taking the deck over to the nearby table that had long since been abandoned by the previous owner Lestrade placed the deck down over the top and smoothed out the cards to count each of the cards, matching the numbers to their suits and finding all but the Ace of Spades in the deck. To be certain Lestrade turned the cards over and found that the pattern on the back of the deck matched the card in Sherlock's hand.

"It belongs to the deck." Lestrade confirmed as he gave Sherlock an approving nod. "It's a match."

Rathe suddenly paled as he realized that the evidence, though unorthodox, was damning all the same. "No. This is a trick. I'd have never put something so condemning on a victim."

"You're correct, no man would ever be so foolish as to raise the axe against himself, but for a victim who wished to see justice prevail would."

"What? I don't-"

"Let me explain:" Sherlock interrupted with a coy fortitude. "when you had Mycroft abducted by your spy, the spy you dared to plant outside my flat, you had him taken here to be... murdered." The word was almost too vile to let pass his lips. "My brother, clever and resourceful, knew he was going to his death and knew that you'd had previously, meticulously, contemplated the act and hadn't overlooked any potential flaw. As a man who greatly enjoys poker, a game of deception and tactic, you no doubt played a hand or two while Mycroft was bound and waiting his doom."

Rathe's eyes began to widen with abject horror and beads of sweat formed on his temples.

"While you were distracted by your cards Mycroft managed to slip a card unnoticed from the deck and secure it in his own pocket; whether it was intentional or coincidence the card stolen was the Ace of Spades. Upon his death the card would connect the act to your hand." Sherlock held out the card for Lestrade to take and secure. "I'm certain that the knife used to slit his throat has long since disposed, most likely thrown into the sea to be lost to the tide forever, but I suspect a jury would be convinced enough by the card and my reputation to hang you from the highest gallows until your neck snaps."

Rathe stared at Sherlock with utter disgust and defeat before elbowing Wilson in the chest and rushing through the tavern to the reach the second floor of the building.

"Don't let him escape!" Lestrade shouted as Sherlock and Watson chased after Rathe.

Sherlock followed after Rathe at an impressively quick pace. Watson was a few paces behind Sherlock while Lestrade was checking on Wilson who had the wind knocked out of his lungs, but was otherwise uninjured.

Rathe bolted to the far end of the floor, diving into the only open door and finding himself trapped in a deadend as Sherlock and Watson located him.

"Nowhere to run." Sherlock observed as he took a step toward the suspect. "Nowhere to hide. Retain what is left of your dignity and surrender."

Rathe stared at the massive hole in the wall and edged closer to the wall. The worn floorboards creaked and snapped under his weight as he approached the hole in the wall and looked down at the rocky shore that awaited his drop.

"Don't be foolish!" Watson cautioned from the doorway. "You'd never survive the swim!"

Rathe turned his back to the hole and glared with unspoken rage at the detective who stood his ground between Rathe and the only other exit to the room.

"Damn you Holmes... Damn you!"

"You've damned yourself!" Sherlock refuted sharply. "It was you who acted upon violence impulse and the life of an innocent man. Regardless of my relation to the victim you still took an innocent life without provocation. Murder is a capital offense and one that I will ensure is punished properly."

Rathe shifted his weight onto one leg as he prepared to charge through the detective and the doctor to get through the door, but the sudden shift in weight caused the floorboard to fail entirely. Rathe fell partially through the floor, the jagged edge of the wooden plank snagging onto his tie and holding the entire weight of his body against his throat as he dangled above the rocky shore of the sea below.

Sherlock and Watson approached the edge of the floor and looked down as the last of Rathe's strength began to quickly fail him as he hanged by his own tie. The fabric of the tie tightened steadily around his throat choking away his final breath while also threatening to snap his neck as it crushed his windpipe.

"Holmes?" Watson addressed his friend quietly as he slowly knelt on the floor. "Should we..."

"No." Sherlock shook his head slightly as he watched Rathe's eyes roll up into the back of his head, his face turning from red to purple and finally blue as the blood supply to his brain was cut off.

Rathe's dead body hung heavily from the second floor for only a moment longer before the sharp wooden floorboard cut through the strained fabric of the tie. A sharp 'snap' rang out as woven fabric of the tie failed. Rathe's body plummeted into the sea and crashed mercilessly against the rides as the relentless tide battered his body to and fro against the shore.

"Sherlock?" Watson stood up again. Putting a hand to his friend's shoulder he slowly pulled Sherlock away from the atrocious sight below and back toward the door. "Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm... not sure."

* * *

Scotland Yard converged on the tavern to confiscate the illegal gains that Rathe had throughout the building. Numerous contacts and wanted criminals had been identified by a greatly detailed list kept in Rathe's personal possessions. Upon Rathe's death dozens of dangerous criminals had been tracked down and pulled off the streets allowing the city of London to rest a little easier during the immediate future.

As per Mycroft's wishes he was buried in a quiet cemetery outside Sussex next to his parents. The funeral was small, only those who personally knew Mycroft were in attendance as it seemed the elder Holmes brother was far more reclusive than Sherlock had ever been.

It was a contrastingly bright and sunny day during the funeral. Taking place two days after Rathe's death the funeral was as elegant as it was swift. As Mycroft's body was laid to rest in the perpetually green earth a sense of accomplishment and dread fell upon Sherlock's heart.

The gathered mourners slowly departed the cemetery, leaving Sherlock the last of those who came to give their final respects to the fallen Holmes brother. Sherlock stood beside the coffin as it awaited its descent into the grave. Watson stood back and watched from afar to give Sherlock a private final moment with his brother.

Placing a single white lily atop the black coffin lid Sherlock whispered something that Watson couldn't hear, nor did he ask to know what was spoken.

Sherlock slowly turned away from the coffin with his hands in pocket as he walked away from the grave. The detective's eyes were fixed on the dirt path that he had walked as with Watson as they were two of the six pallbearers that carried the coffin from the hearse to the grave. Stopping only once he recognized Watson's presence the detective looked up and stared at his friend with a deeply remorseful gaze.

"Watson?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly filled with tears as if reality had struck him in all but an instant. "My brother is dead."

Watson nodded weakly. "Yes."

Sherlock's eyes clenched shut tightly as streams of tears fell from his eyes and rolled down his face. Putting a hand up to cover his face Sherlock stifled a sob weakly as Watson wrapped his arms around him to support him a tight hug.

"Don't fight it! Let yourself cry!"

Responding to the hug Sherlock's arm reached up and wrapped around Watson to reciprocate the much needed, and appreciated display of support being given by his best friend; his second brother.

"It's going to be alright Holmes." Watson soothed calmly as he held his weeping friend in his arms. "It'll take time but I promise you that you will be okay."

**_-The End_ **

**Author's Note:**

> It helps to have read my four previous stories in this order: "Blood Brothers", "A Close Call", followed by "The Kidnapping" and ending with "Feeling Burned."


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